That Which Does Not Kill You
by MistWraith
Summary: COMPLETE. The deal said Dean had to go to Hell it never said he had to stay there.  GrimDetermined!Dean.  Really Angsty!Sam. Rated T for some language and an image or two. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**A Disclaimer**: Believe me, if I owned the Winchester boys, I _so_ would not share!

**A/Nı:**AHBL2 continues to make waves! Yet another "what if" story. Dean made the Deal and he honored his part of the bargain—but that's as far as he goes. (After seeing "The Magnificent Seven", I just wanted to note that this story was plotted out and mostly written before that ep aired. I mention that because something that comes into the story much later on, resembles something in the season opener. I truly had no idea that would happen!)

While this is a WIP, it's mostly done. I have a couple of chapters yet to write (and some sections written but not typed up), as well as some heavy editing of the end section, which is what happens when you write the end before the middle! I hope to have the whole story printed within a month.

Please read and review.

**THAT WHICH DOES NOT KILL YOU**

_**Prologue: The End**_

Dean Winchester slipped silently out the motel room door. Not that it mattered much. Considering how potent a mickey he had slipped Sam, he could have left preceded by a marching band and his brother would have continued to snore. Still, force of habit and all that.

Before closing the door behind him, he glanced at his brother, unconscious on one bed, then at the small nightstand between the two lumpy double beds the room contained. Sitting in plain view, so that even groggy Sammy wouldn't miss them, were his ring, his amulet and the keys to his baby, sitting on the registration. Dad had left her to him and now he was passing the Impala on to Sam. Not that the bitch would appreciate her; Sam continued to insist she was just a _car_. Some days, Dean wondered if they were really related.

The one thing he kept was the anti-possession charm Bobby had given him after Sam had been possessed by Meg, what now seemed to be a lifetime ago. Hell was going to get his soul, but he'd be damned (okay, yeah, he _was_, but…) if he would give himself up to be possessed and used against Sam or other hunters or innocent people.

Behind the objects left on the nightstand, leaning against the small table lamp, was an envelope. Dean hadn't addressed it; Sam would know the contents had been meant for him. The short note had taken Dean forever to compose; he had been working on it for the last six weeks. Then again, saying that stuff did not come easily to him and he had written and ripped up a dozen prior attempts.

Sam would be pissed about Dean's spiking his drink, but there was no way Dean was letting Sam come along. Sam had become a man possessed as Dean's due date had drawn closer, driving himself mercilessly to find a way out for his brother and ignoring every attempt by Dean to get him to stop. Sam would just stare at him with burning, haunted eyes and go back to his research. This was what Dean had hoped to avoid. Damn Jake and his big mouth. Dean hoped he had a chance to do something nasty to the former soldier when he met the bastard in Hell.

If Sam came along, Dean knew without question his idiot younger brother would try something, _anything_, to keep Dean from being taken to Hell. And Sam would probably get himself killed in the process, which would make it all for nothing. So Dean had drugged Sam's food, had hauled his brother's oversized ass to a bed and had carefully tucked the soon-to-be last Winchester standing into bed.

And since this would be the only right time for a chick-flick moment—and his last chance to say something with words that Dean had tried to say with actions for twenty-four years now—Dean had leaned over his baby brother, brushed the damn emo bangs aside and whispered, "I love you, Sammy; I have from the minute Mom and Dad told me I was going to be a big brother. Now, move on, damn you, and live! For me, if you won't do it for yourself."

He closed the door with a barely discernible click, then crossed the parking lot toward the small, dirt road leading into the darkness. He stopped briefly to place a hand on the Impala and stroke her gently.

"You take care of him for me, sweetheart, okay?" he whispered. Swallowing a sudden lump in this throat, he continued walking.

There was a crossroads about two miles down the road. It was his goal. He would not run or hide; he would meet her on her territory. A few minutes into his walk, he passed a small country church. Unbeknownst to Sam, he had stopped there earlier in the day. He still didn't believe—his life, and now his death, had given him no reason to—but he figured it couldn't hurt, either. He could still see himself, seated in one of the wooden pews, trying to decide what to say:

_He had been honest about it. "I'm not going to tell you I've changed my mind. I still don't think you're out there, and if you are, I want to know where the He—heck, you've been. Why I've seen and fought demons, but never met an angel on the battlefield. Why you let all this cr—uh, stuff happen to good people._

"_But just in case, I want to ask two favors. I've never asked for anything from you before, so it's not like I've used up my turn. I, uh, I want you to make Sammy forget. About me and the Deal and everything. He deserves a good life, a happy life, a fucking—um, sorry—__**normal**__ one. And a family, and all that other good stuff. He's killing himself over this Deal and I didn't want that. Blaming himself. It wasn't his fault, it was mine. __**I**__ failed, not him! I didn't protect him, I didn't do the job Dad left me. I shouldn't even have been here, Dad should have been and he would have done the job right. So, if Sam's forgetting me is what it takes to help him move on, then...it's okay with me."_

_He had taken a deep breath then and gripped the back of the pew in front of him. "And I won't try to say I'm not scared. I am. Eternity's a long time. But Dad went without wimping out and, uh, well, um, just don't let me dishonor myself, okay?" _

The church faded behind him, cloaked in the night. No light or music or sign acknowledged either his plea earlier or his passing tonight.

Another half hour brought him to the crossroads. He turned slowly, to be met by darkness everywhere. He listened, but there were no sounds, no baying of hellhounds, nothing. Which told him something was coming, since there should have been at least night birds and insects.

Then he became aware of a section of the night slowly turning the color of flame. As he stared at it, a rip appeared, which opened slowly becoming a great mouth. A figure, monstrous, black-scaled and winged stepped from the fiery maw.

A taloned hand waved at him. "Dean Winchester, are you here to honor your part of the bargain?"

Dean squared his shoulders, nodded and met the beast's eyes. Not inky black, or gem red or flaring yellow, they were two pools of fire that burned and danced and flickered. Dean swallowed once and wondered briefly just how highly ranked _this_ thing was; he suspected even Azazel would have stepped aside.

"The demon you dealt with was but an unimportant minion of mine. Most deals humans make are with it, as most of these bargains are also of no particular importance, merely one more soul for us to play with." The beast moved closer to Dean, wings flaring; Dean stood his ground. "But you, Dean Winchester, are different. This deal_mattered_." There was a rumble in the demon's chest that Dean thought was supposed to be laughter.

Dean shrugged. "A Winchester, and all that."

The laughter was obvious now. "No. Your father's bargain was personal to that incompetent Azazel—there will be no extra punishment, by the way, for killing it; it was stupid and deserved what it got—but of no special importance to Hell, save that it kept you alive." The demon came to its full height—which, Dean conceded, was quite impressive—and laughed again. "It amuses me to take you alive, not just your soul but your mortal form as well. More to play with."

The beast gestured with one arm, and Dean felt himself grabbed as if by a huge hand and he was pulled, soul _and_ body, into the maw. Oddly, his final words were "What the hell was it talking about?"

He sort of wished they had been something more memorable.

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**A/N**: Future chapters should be longer, with two sections each, a Sammy section and a Dean section. Please let me know what you think so far.


	2. And the Devil Will Drag You Under

**Disclaimer**Still not mine

**A/N**: Here's the next chapter, a little longer than the prologue. The chapters will follow the same pattern (except for the pretty long epilogue) of a Sammy section and a Dean section.

And thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.

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_**Chapter 2: And the Devil Will Drag You Under**_

He raged, striding back and forth in the motel room, shouting imprecations at God—_"I__**believed**__ in you, damn it!"_— at Hell, at their father and especially at Dean—_"You fucking son of a bitch. You just __**left**__ me!"_—and throwing furniture around. A small voice in the back of mind wondered why no manager or fellow guest had banged on a door or wall by now to tell him to shut up.

Then again, no one probably wanted to confront the crazy person.

He had chosen anger upon awakening, muzzy-headed and with the taste of cotton in his mouth, because it kept the grief and pain at bay, and if he were to let the grief out, he knew he would drown in it. Jessica dying had blasted a hole in his heart, had had torn one in his life, but this, _this_ was a pain that rose to challenge an uncaring Heaven.

He had no idea how to survive it.

Energy spent at last, he sank down on one bed, his head in his hands, one fist still clutching the note that had been inside the envelope he'd found on his night table. He could barely see for the tears filling his eyes and spilling down his cheeks like overflow over a dam, but he'd read it ten times now and had practically committed it to memory.

"_Sammy,_

_I've been trying for weeks now to write this damn thing, but it kept coming out like something my emo, girlie brother would write and I'll be damned if I go out sounding like some chick._

_Fuck, this is __**hard**__. I've always been the one watching someone else's taillights disappear down the road._

_Listen to me. This is __**not**__ your fault. It's mine. It's always been mine. I had one job: protect the family, you and Dad—and I fucked it up. Hell, I fucked it up years ago—why else would everyone have been able to walk away from me so easily?_

Sam shut his eyes briefly. Damn, Dean, I'm sorry Dad and I made you think we only loved you when you did things for us.

_Things really didn't turn out so badly, you know? You're alive. Dad is free. Mom and Jess are avenged. The damn Demon is dead—so you never have to worry about it again._

_Ah, hell, I suck at this. Look, little brother, I want you—no, I __**need**__ you—to give yourself a break. This wasn't your fault. And there's no little EvilSammy inside of you waiting to break out, you hear me? _

_So…you go on. Take care of my baby and she'll take care of you. And…remember the good times, okay?_

_Your older, wiser, __**much**__ handsomer brother._

_(That would be me, in case you were wondering, smartass!)_

_And I have to **say** it, you emo chick you, right? Okay, here goes (but if you tell anyone I wrote this, I swear I'll find a way to get you back!). I love you, and I did from the minute Mom and Dad brought you home. Even though I could tell right a way you were really a girl.  
_

_And even though you were the stinkiest baby. Changing __**your**__ diapers was not a picnic._

The waterworks were flowing again. Damn, **stow** it, Winchester. This isn't helping! He swiped at his eyes, one line rolling around in his head. _I've always been the one watching someone's taillights disappearing down the road_. For the first time, he understood what Dean must have felt watching the bus heading off to Palo Alto and during the years when Sam had cut off contact. Or when Sam had promised to give Dean the time he asked for after the disaster in Oregon, only to sneak out like a thief in the night.

Sam opened his cell phone and entered Bobby's number. A moment later, a gruff voice said, "Hello. Sam, is that you?"

_I've always been the one watching someone's taillights disappearing down the road._

"Bobby," Sam said brokenly. "Dean's left me."

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A sensation of falling and falling, of not being able to breathe, of searing heat, and then slamming into something solid. Dean groaned. His legs hurt, his body hurt, his arms hurt, his head hurt, hell, even his _hair_ hurt. By rights, though, he should have shattered into a million Dean-shards after hitting the ground that way. Then he blinked. Ground? _A prison of flesh and bone and blood and fear._ That's what Meg had called it. No ground anywhere in that description.

He raised his head slowly, spitting out grit and sand and tiny pebbles, and surveyed his landing pad. Nothing but desert stretched in every direction. At least, flesh and bone and blood and fear bespoke something alive. This place, by contrast, screamed desolation, emptiness, death. Sere and unforgiving.

He wiped a hand across his forehead, trying to clear away the sweat dripping into his eyes. The air was searing his lungs, every breath torturous. There was no sun to blister and burn but it wasn't needed: the sky blazed as if eternally on fire. A strong wind played across the land: he could see dust devils—_how appropriate!_—whirling and dancing in columns up to thirty feet high, but the breeze blew past like an oven blast, baking every part of him it touched.

He became aware of being thirsty and hungry, gnawing pangs of need and no way to satisfy them. Yep. _That_ seemed more like the Hell he expected, a place of unending torment, and no one who had never experienced true thirst or starving hunger could understand the agony or desperate need that accompanied them.

Though desert, the land was not flat. It twisted and buckled, as if the very ground writhed in exquisite pain. Ravines with jagged-edged rims slashed across the landscape like open wounds and in the distance, buttes and pinnacles and far mountains rose like razor-sharp fangs. Here and there, the surface was dotted by stunted, twisted vegetation armed with massive spiky thorns.

Or maybe they were Hell's version of dainty leaves.

Staring at what appeared to be a cliff wall that formed a semi-circle—some distance away but considerably closer than the mountains--he thought for just an instant that he saw a thin plume of smoke rising from the base of the wall and disappearing into the flame-colored sky. It was the first sign of anything suggestive of other inhabitants and he started walking toward it.

As he passed one of the short, vicious-looking plants, he stopped and studied the spikes. They were about one-and-one-half feet long, as thick around at the base as Dean's arm and tipped with a wickedly sharp point. For some reason, the damn thing seemed…_hungry_.

Carefully, he reached out and touched one, ready to jump back if Seymour suddenly decided to eat him. With a sharp jerk, he ripped the thorn off at the base. The plant seemed to scream, whether in rage or pain he could not tell, and it began to thrash around wildly while something pus-like leaked from the "wound". Dean put a goodly distance between himself and the furious ficus.

Pleased at having something that could pass as a weapon—he had felt totally naked without any weaponry at all—he tucked Seymour Junior into his belt and continued toward the cliff wall. After what felt like hours, his goal _did_ seem closer—he wondered without much real interest why he was being permitted to actually get anywhere—but still way too far. He was caked in sand, the grit sticking to every sweat-covered part of him. It had gotten into his shoes and was rubbing his feet raw, but he suspected that the ground was way too hot to walk on in his bare feet. Hunger was eating at him ferociously but the thirst? God, he would have drained the Impala's radiator and left her sitting dead on the side of the road, just to get a sip of water.

He wondered briefly if the spiky plants had water inside, the way cacti did, but he hesitated to check it out. Every one of them he'd passed since snatching the thorn had seemed to glare at him and promise terrible retribution.

He was pretty sure he wouldn't die from either hunger or thirst; in fact, he'd better get used to it because this deal was for eternity. A damned _long_ time.

Dean heard cawing and, glancing up, he saw winged _things_ (he somehow doubted they were birds) criss-crossing the sky. If they were as high up as they appeared, then they were several times the size of an eagle and he was hoping they had recently fed somewhere else; he didn't relish the idea of trying to take them on.

He starting walking again, keeping a watch on the overhead threat. It turned out to be an almost fatal mistake. As he peered upward, he became aware of a movement to his right at ground level. Only reflexes honed by two decades of hunting things faster and stronger than humans saved him, as the sand suddenly erupted, a huge lizard the same color as the dirt exploding out of the depression in which it had been hiding. Dean was vaguely aware of large jaws filled with nasty teeth and four heavily-taloned feet.

Having taken the offensive, it had him scrambling repeatedly to avoid the snapping jaws and slashing talons. Breathing heavily, he stumbled slightly after a few close calls and felt several claws rake across his left leg. Dean gasped against the shooting pain and fell sideways. Sensing victory, the lizard loomed over its prey--Dean wondered momentarily what its ultimate intentions were, since he was pretty sure being killed off was not in the cards; maybe it got to munch on him for a bit, while he regenerated only to be eaten again--and Dean took the opportunity to strike back. Pulling the thorn from his belt, he rolled onto his back and thrust the spike upward with all his strength. To his surprise, it pierced the pebbled skin relatively easily. The lizard shrieked once, an almost human sound--_Was it?_ he wondered. _Was this someone's punishment? Did I just stab a person?_ He desperately hoped not--and dropped to the ground, motionless and bleeding green blood.

Dean pushed the fallen beast off his leg. Then slowly, painfully, he climbed to his feet. His left leg was on fire. He pulled the ripped pants leg apart and studied the wounds. They ran in parallel slashes about seven inches in length and long experience with injuries told him they were _already_ festering. _Well, what else did you expect in Hell? That your boo-boos wouldn't rot?_

Reaching the source of the smoke plume seemed more imperative than ever. He tucked the thorn back into the belt; had he been holding it in his hand, he would have lost it when the lizard first attacked. He was limping badly, each step an agony that fought with the thirst and hunger pangs for the Most Painful Thing in Hell So Far award.

After a while, Dean was no longer really thinking about what he was doing, lost instead in an internal mantra. _Just one more step. Just one more step._ His vision was blurry with sweat and pain, and some part of his mind recognized he was dead meat--so to speak--if anything chose to attack now.

So lost was he in the mindless need to _"just keep walking"_, it came as a total shock to him when he found himself at the base of the cliff wall, staring at what appeared to be a small settlement of huts made of parts of the spiky plants, a stand of which appeared to be growing not too far away. Beyond that was the only other vegetation he had seen, oddly-shaped trees and bushes with a sickly grayish-green tint. The encampment was surrounded by an enclosure, also made of thorns and stems from the plant, as well as branches from the trees and bushes; one lone fire burned in the center of the settlement.

And to one side was something that appeared to be a well. Thirst had reached the point of near-madness and he knew that if anyone got between him and the well, he would plow right through them.

He pushed aside a bushy door in the spiky wall and started into the encampment, dragging his left leg--which had become swollen and covered with the red streaks of raging infection--as he moved, single-mindedly, toward his goal of water.

No matter what.

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How's it going so far? The next chapter is written and being edited.


	3. Another Fine Mess

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine. Phooey.

**A/N**: Wherein certain questions are answered and we meet a female character, who does the answering. In case anyone is worried, this is NOT a ship story and there will be **no** romance. But Dean can't answer his own questions, so another voice was needed. And one can't have too many friends in Hell!

Thank you all again for the fantastic reviews.

_**Chapter 2: Hell of a Fine Mess**_

Dean had insisted they return for the end to the crossroads where it all started, near the town where Sam had been killed. Sam had long since given up trying to understand DeanThink and he had not wanted to argue, not at the end, so he agreed, though he hated that town and everything it had come to mean in his life.

Sam would have gone to Bobby eventually anyway, but after racing out to the crossroads after he woke up, intending to take his brother's body back with him and finding _nothing,_ not even so much as a fingernail, talking to Bobby became imperative.

So it was a good thing the crossroads wasn't that far from Bobby's, maybe an hour, two at the most, because he really wasn't fit to drive. He was amazed he made it in one piece, considering the torrential downpour raining from his eyes. Some part of him was astounded at the amount of water contained in his tear ducts, which were apparently the size of Lake Superior. A part of him that sounded suspiciously like Dean.

_God, Samantha, you are __**such**__ a girl! It's a good thing no one who knows us can see you now; it's embarrassing. And if you hit a tree and scratch my baby because you're crying like some chick…_

He stopped the Impala before turning into Bobby's place, to compose himself and so that he didn't feel quite so much like a six-year old with a skinned knee running to an adult to make it feel better. When he finally turned in through the gate, he was greeted by furious barking from Cheney, the late, lamented Rumsfeld's replacement, which stopped when he stepped out of the car and was recognized. The stumpy tail began to wag and Cheney adopted a hopeful expression because arrival of the Winchesters in the past had meant treats.

_I'm sorry, fella. It was usually Dean who wanted to sneak you stuff, even though he wouldn't own up to it. I forgot to bring anything_

The front door opened and Bobby came out onto the porch. To Sam's surprise, the older man's eyes seemed red and puffy and he realized Bobby had been crying, and for the same reason Sam had been. Dean. It warmed Sam, but it also threatened to run roughshod over his hard-won composure. Judging from the way Bobby swallowed convulsively several times, Sam knew the older hunter was engaged in the same fight to hold it together.

Sam climbed the steps to the porch. In silence, Bobby placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. Neither man trusted his ability to speak without breaking down.

A half hour later, after eating something and fortifying himself with some alcohol, Sam said, "He drugged me, Bobby. _Damn_ him! If," Sam grimaced, "_when_ we get him back, I'm going to kick his ass across every state in the country!"

Bobby smiled sadly. "He was afraid for you, Sam. Afraid you'd try to stop them from taking him and that you'd get yourself hurt. or even worse, killed. He'd rather have you mad at him for decades than dead."

"Is he, Bobby? Dead, I mean? There wasn't even a trace of a body."

Bobby shook his head. "I don't know. I've heard tales of people being dragged bodily to Hell, but that's all they've ever been. Stories. I've never been able to prove any of them are true."

Sam traced an invisible pattern on the table with one finger. "I failed him, Bobby. He always thought _he_ was a failure, but it really was me. I promised him I'd save him, and the only thing I succeeded in doing was taking out the crossroads demon."

Bobby shrugged. "Woulda worked, Sam, if she'd been the one holding the contract, the way she'd been with that Evan guy you saved last year. Neither of us had any way of knowing she was just a go-between, working for a more powerful demon."

"Who?" Sam surged to his feet, rocking the table. "Damn it, _who_? I spent nine months trying to find out the name of the fucking demon and came up empty! So much for Mr. Free Ride to Stanford," he said bitterly. "Not so smart when it counted, was I?"

He sank back into the chair and dropped his head into his hands. "Bobby, should I have told him? You know, that some High Mucky Muck of Hell was gunning for him?" Sam looked up, tears flowing again. "He had the right to know, but deep down inside, he was scared, Bobby. You know? And, uh, I thought if he knew this, it would just make it worse."

Bobby's weather and work-roughened hand covered one of Sam's own. "Sam, I agreed with you on that. It wouldn't have helped Dean to know; there wasn't anything he could do about it."

After a moment, Sam nodded. Then he drew a shaky breath and squared his shoulders. "I couldn't keep him from going, but I'll never stop trying to get him out."

"Don't set yourself up for a fall, Sam," Bobby said gently. "That ain't too likely."

"Dad got out," Sam snapped back.

"Only because a Hellmouth was opened and your Daddy, stubborn son of a bitch that he was, clawed his way out!" Bobby leaned forward, his voice intense. "We are _not_ gonna open a Hellmouth. Not even for Dean."

"I told Dean I'd save him no matter _what_ it took and I meant it!" For an instant, Sam felt the same combination of rage and cold-bloodedness that had resulted in his blowing away Jake, and he didn't care about what else might get out of an opened Hellmouth. Hundreds had escaped a year ago, too, and most of them had subsequently been hunted and destroyed or exorcised. They could do it again.

Bobby's grip on his hand increased. His voice had become quieter and softer. "Dean would hate it if you did something like that, Sam. He would never be able to live with the consequences. Every innocent hurt or enslaved by a demon, Dean would see as blood on his hands. Sam, you would _destroy_ him!"

Sam slumped down and closed his eyes. He knew Bobby was right. If there were a way to get Dean out of Hell, it couldn't involve putting anyone else in the line of fire.

"What do I do, Bobby? What do I do?" Sam asked, swiping at his eyes, unaware he was mirroring Dean's words a year ago over Sam's own corpse. "I can't just walk away and leave him there, suffering for eternity and all because of me."

"I didn't say you should, boy. This ain't over. We'll keep going 'til we've tried everything."

After a few seconds, a slight smile touched Sam's lips and he nodded.

"Damn straight."

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Dean turned the well handle. He could feel the bucket rising slowly. It seemed suspiciously light but then, all he needed was a cup. Just one lousy cup. There would be enough in the bucket for that, there_would_ be.

"There isn't any water; it's not time yet."

Dean whirled around. There were people--at least they _looked_ like people--peering out of hut entrances. Adults, with children tucked up against them. All of them staring at him with terrified eyes. He resisted the temptation to feel for horns and a tail.

Only one of the settlement's inhabitants was not cowering inside the flimsy shelters. Behind lines of weariness and suffering, she appeared to be a human in her twenties with plain but strong features. Her hair was tied back only loosely and several strands had made a break for freedom, blowing across her face in the hot wind. She eyed him with some nervousness showing, but the way she tilted her chin up and the firm line of her mouth spoke to a determination not to be cowed. He'd always admired courage.

Looking back at the well briefly, he asked, "What do you mean, it's not time?"

Her eyes widened. "You are newly arrived here!"

"Here, as in _here_?" Dean asked, gesturing at the encampment. "Because, uh, yeah."

She frowned and shook her head. "I meant, in Hell."

"Ah,_that_. Well, yep to that, too." He stared out at the sere lands beyond the settlement enclosure. "So, this _is_ Hell. I mean, I was pretty sure. Just not what I expected."

"It is a special prison--perhaps created by one of the Upper Lords for its amusement; I do not know for sure--and all here are still among the living. And so, because the living require food and water and air to breathe, the same has been provided." A bitter smile flickered across her face. "Not _much_ is given--for this _is_ Hell and what would Hell be without suffering?--but something. That is why I said it was not time. Water, like food, is provided three times daily. Enough to barely keep the madness of hunger and thirst at bay, but no more."

She smiled suddenly. "I forget my manners, easy to do in this place that has never known the light of the Most High. I am Tillih." She pronounced it with a slight breathiness at the end, a hint of an "h."

He smiled back. "Dean."

"Come. You are weary--."

"And ready to beat up a pregnant woman for a glass of water," he muttered. She peered at him, not able apparently to hear his words, for which he was grateful. He just shook his head and spread his hands wide.

"--and injured," she continued, giving up on what he had said. "It is not much cooler inside, but some, and you can at least rest your leg. It will be time for water as the night comes."

"You get night here? With _that_ sky?" There was surprise in his voice.

"The flames never die but they darken, as if burning before a night sky instead of a daylight one. We are nothing if not creatures of habit and so we call the darker sky 'night', when it is probably no such thing." She waved him toward the nearest hut. "Come, Dean. Let me look at your leg."

Dean followed her into the hut, limping badly. There was a crude table that appeared to have been made from the oddly-shaped trees he had seen near the settlement, and "seats" that were nothing more than large chunks of rock that must have fallen from the cliff wall. He sat down on one of them and she gestured to him to raise his left leg. This was done with considerable effort and enough pain to make him want to bash his head into one of the stony seats until he was unconscious.

The wound was pretty disgusting to look at, even compared to some of the stuff he had seen in his career as a hunter. The infection was in full gallop and he wondered idly how long it would be before the entire leg just fell off.

As if reading his mind, Tillih said, "It will heal, you know. Every wound does. The fun is in playing with us, not killing us off. If we're dead, we can't hurt, bleed or tremble in fear."

"Demons. You just have to love that kind, gentle streak they all have."

Tillih looked surprised then she laughed. "You are very amusing, Dean. It has been a long time since I've laughed."

"How long have you been here?" he asked quietly.

"Forever," was the equally quiet reply.

_Forever._ A forever of desperate thirst and hunger, of festering wounds and excruciating pain, of blazing heat, of endless nothing. It had been his choice and he would do it again to save Sam's life, but he would not have been human had the thought of an eternity of this not been crushing.

Then again, maybe he wasn't still human. He raised his head and looked at her. "Why? Are we still alive, I mean? It's not what happened to Dad. He died when he gave up his soul."

"Your father is also in Hell?" She looked stunned. "Is this some very stupid family tradition?" There was an asperity to her tone.

Dean couldn't help grinning at that. "Well, we Winchesters don't do normal very well." Then his smile faded and he stared at his hands. "A demon—Azazel—killed my mom when I was four. He was really after my little brother Sammy. Sam has some…abilities and the demon wanted to use them. We didn't know until a couple of years ago it _was_ a demon, just that it was something supernatural. Dad started hunting them, raised us up to do the same.

"We thought we had the yellow-eyed bastard cornered two years ago but…well, let's just say it didn't turn out the way we'd hoped. We all got battered and me, I was pretty torn up. Hell, I was dying. Dad ended up making a deal with the son-of-a-bitch that had wrecked our lives, giving the bastard the gun we'd used against it--_and_ Dad's soul." He was silent for a moment then he slammed both fists on the table. "For _me!_ He did it for me and he shouldn't have!"

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wasn't worth it, not Dad's life. And I was supposed to keep Sammy safe. Dad would have been able to, but I couldn't. He died. Sammy, I mean. So…I made a deal. I got one year and Sammy back, and Hell got me after the year was up."

Tillih was working on something in one corner of the hut, her back to him, but he could see her shaking her head. "I know you only this short while, and the rest of your family not at all, but I think you are unduly harsh in your assessment of yourself." She glanced at him over her shoulder, a slight smile on her lips. "I will have more than enough time to learn which of us is correct."

She went back to whatever it was she was doing--Dean couldn't get a glimpse past her--but continued speaking. "As for your question, why we are here alive. It would appear we are in Hell's playground. I suspect many here are not those who would truly end up in Hell--you saw the children?" At his nod, she said, "None here, save yourself, have made any deals with Hell. None here have died. We were all simply snatched and brought here."

"Demons raid Earth and take innocents prisoner? Fuck." He colored slightly. "Ah, sorry." A thoughtful expression settled over his face. "I hadn't heard they did that; I thought the war was only about establishing a demonic presence on Earth. Maybe taking slaves or playthings was part of it, too, though. Not sure why. Wouldn't it be just as much fun to play with us on Earth?"

She shrugged. "I cannot answer that. Even after all this time, the minds of demons are still a mystery to me." An apologetic expression flitted across her face. "Especially as I have no idea what or where 'Earth' is."

His eyes widened. "You're not from _Earth_?"

"I do not know. Names change, and I have been here such a long time." Her voice faltered and, for an instant, despair settled in her eyes. Then she shook herself and gave him a slight smile, though she refused to meet his sympathetic gaze.

Tillih picked up a small bowl that seemed to have been made by chipping out a depression in a chunk of rock and came back to the table. "Here, let me put this on the wound. It will help."

He raised his eyebrows. "The demons kindly left us some medication?"

"Hardly. We discovered this ourselves. The ichor that leaks from the spiked plants if you break off one of the spikes is actually the plant's way of healing itself and re-growing the missing part. We found that it can ease the pain of a wound and help it to heal." She gave him a wide smile. "Human ingenuity triumphs again, however small it may be."

"If it stops making me want to amputate something, then it's not small at all, trust me!"

She laughed and smeared the wound with a viscous concoction that smelled awful and almost made him want to pull away, but her amused expression, indicating she knew exactly what he was thinking, made him hold his ground with a sheepish grin. His initial reaction was to bite his lip to avoid screaming--the damn shit burned like acid--but within seconds not only the burning but also the original searing pain began to fade, heading towards something he could tolerate.

"Tillih's Magical Sticky Stuff," he said with a grin. "It's too bad we need to keep it a secret; we could make a fortune selling this around." As the pain continued to ease and he found he could think clearly again, without spending every second trying to survive the agony, he turned his head and glanced out the open doorway at the desolate and forbidding land beyond. His home from now until the end of time and he felt a hitch of despair.

Then he straightened up and pushed the feeling away. He had made this choice and he did not regret it. And somehow, he would have to find a way to live with it. Dean studied Tillih, whose back was to him again. _She_ had found away, and he'd be damned if he couldn't do it as well. Then again, he _was_ damned, wasn't he?

And it wasn't turning out to be _anything_ like the brochure.

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**A/N:** I apologize for its being a bit exposition heavy; sometimes, there's just no other way! I hope to have the next chapter up by the end of the week at the latest.


	4. The Devil's in the Details

**Disclaimer**: Not mine, not mine! Sob

**A/N**: Wherein Dean begins to wonder about some things. Or, as Dean would say, "Whatever." Thank you again both for sticking with the story and for taking the time to let me know how it's going.

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_**Chapter 4: The Devil's In the Details**_

_Are you crazy? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there!_

_But not here._ Sam thought, sitting on the hood of Bobby's truck, one hand robotically stroking Cheney._Here, there be wards and sigils and salt and iron, all strengthened since Meg made her way in. I'm as safe as I could ever be._

Sam was sitting quietly now, having stopped even sniffling because it upset the Rottweiler, who would then saturate Sam's face with a vigorous application of an enthusiastic tongue. Earlier that day, though, Sam had nearly put a fist through one of Bobby's windows in frustration after another of Bobby's contacts had nothing to offer.

"Sam," Bobby had said softly, "Dean wouldn't want you to do this to yourself. It isn't your fault."

"The hell it isn't!" Sam had bellowed, surging to his feet. "It was my damn destiny--God, I _hate_ that word--that sent us along this path, but did I _do_ anything about it? Hell, no. It was all: 'Dean, you have to take care of it; you have to kill me if I go bad.' I never once said: 'To hell with the damn Demon and its fucking plans; I'm _not_ going evil, period.' I put the same stupid responsibility on Dean that Dad did. Two fucking peas in a pod, John Winchester and his Sammy!

"And if I'd had the backbone, the strength, to do what I should have done back in that town, taken Jake down--or at least, been _smart_ enough not to leave the damn knife there--Dean would never have had to make the fucking deal! It damn well _is_ my fault, and I should have found a way to do _something_, and I didn't." His voice had suddenly dropped to an anguished whisper. "And now Dean's in Hell. Because of me."

Bobby had not had anything to say.

Cheney woofed softly and nudged at Sam's hand, pulling Sam back to the present. Mechanically, he began to pat the dog again. Here he was, guarded by a highly trained Rottweiler, secure behind sigils and wards and spells and traps, protected by a tough-as-nails, smart-as-a-whip demon hunter--maybe the best damn hunter in the business--and Sam knew that without Dean, he would never feel safe again.

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Dean thought he had been at the settlement a few days, though keeping track was iffy, when the demon came. His wound had gradually healed over two days, with Tillih's Magic Sticky Stuff--"Guaranteed To Make Any Hell-Caused Wound Feel Better and Heal Faster, Or…Well, Or Nothing, Since We Ain't Giving You Your Soul Back"--having an amazing effect on the pain. Continued applications had eased the agony to a level where he was no longer thinking of chewing his leg off.

Nothing eased the rest of it, though. The heat was unrelenting, the fire in the sky causing skin to blister and crack, draining strength and making sleep a thing of the past. The twin beasts of hunger and thirst were ever-present, the cupful of water and few mouthfuls of some unpleasant slime that was their thrice-daily ration kept them alive—barely--but did nothing to alleviate the agony of burning stomachs and thirst-thickened tongues.

Flying predators were always a threat and the sand lizards would repeatedly test the wall. Flies and other biting and stinging insects were a constant torment, attacking any exposed part of the body, so even in the heat, he wore all the clothing he had. Fortunately, the Magic Sticky Stuff eased the itching and burning of bites and stings as well. Dean knew what it would mean to the pitiful group of humans in the enclosure--himself included--if the demons ever found out about the magic elixir.

Inactivity was also a problem. For him anyway. It always had been. On a hunt, he could hold a position and wait patiently if he had to, but short of that, he had to be in motion. Even if it were "verbal" motion. Here, he had not yet reached the point where merely surviving from one minute to the next was enough to hold his attention, though he was sure somewhere on the long march to eternity he would cross that mark. If it weren't for Tillih's company--everyone else seemed too beaten down to say much of anything but Tillih stated firmly, chin raised, that she would not become some mindless animal at Hell's whim--he would have seriously considered going out of the enclosure and taking on a sand lizard just to have something to do.

Then the demon came, in a tornado of sand, roaring and laughing as it swept past the pathetic barrier into the settlement. People ran for any shelter, no matter how pitiful. Some, caught away from any possible cover, fell to their knees, crying and begging, then screaming as--the only word Dean could think of was _whips_--of fire slashed them savagely.

A lone child stumbled and fell, calling for her parents. In an instant, the hellspawn loomed over her, in very corporeal form. One hand reached out and slashed the girl's side with two-inch talons and she screamed and tried to run away but she was pushed back by the smiling demon. Dean's face darkened and he came to his feet inside the hut. Before he could take a step, Tillih had caught his sleeve and tried to pull him back down.

"Dean, you cannot help her! There may only one, but he is vastly more powerful than a human. You will bring harm upon yourself and accomplish nothing."

The child screamed again and Dean shook off Tillih's hand. "It doesn't matter, don't you see? I have to try. I can't leave that child alone out there!"

He whirled and raced out the doorway, hesitating only long enough to grab the spiky thorn he had placed beside the entranceway. The demon caught the movement and turned to meet the onrushing human. Dean observed the flick of the demon's wrist; his mind processed the information instantly and well-honed reflexes had him moving swiftly sideways as the fire-whip sizzled harmlessly past his shoulder. Hurling himself forward, Dean slammed into the demon and managed to stagger the fiend, learning an important fact in the process.

Corporeal demons were very, _very_ solid.

The demon came roaring back, backhanding Dean with enough force to send him flying ten feet, landing onto his back hard. Shaking his head to clear it, he managed to raise both legs in time to catch the charging demon and flip it over his head. Dean reached for the spike, which had fallen from his hand when he'd landed.

As his fingers closed on it, the demon grabbed him and raised him up over its head. Its fangs closed on one dangling leg.

"Fuck!" Dean snarled, gritting his teeth against the pain. He managed to swing the spike up and get both hands around its base. Slamming it down into the back of the demon's neck, he slashed it sideways. The spike was not only incredibly sharp for human skin; apparently, it also considered scaly demon skin to be the equivalent of butter. The thorn sliced skin, bone, tendon and Dean found himself being held momentarily by a headless demon, before the taloned grip loosened and he was dropped, even as the demon crumpled to the ground.

Dean lay there gasping for a minute, pain searing through the savage wound opened by the demon's teeth, then he pulled himself upright through sheer force of will, standing with his right leg off the ground since he was pretty sure that, as much as it hurt in a vacuum, it would hurt a hell (so to speak) of a lot more if he actually tried to put weight on it. What was it between the denizens of Hell and his legs, anyway? Had his calves issued some challenge to Hell he was not aware of?

Tillih was suddenly there, placing his arm around her shoulders to give him some support. He nodded his thanks, too busy trying not to scream to be able to talk. The girl's parents came running over, her mother picking her up and hugging her. She looked at Dean through tears, smiled and mouthed "Thank you."

"Bring her to my hut," Tillih said over her shoulder as she helped him toward the rough shelter. She maneuvered him onto one of the stone seats and tapped the table. "Put your leg up here. A demon bite is vicious."

He complied with a smile and a salute. "Yes, ma'am. She laughed and slapped at his shoulder.

While Tillih went to her version of a medical kit to get the salve, Dean placed his right leg across the corner of the table, pulling his pants leg up--he wasn't sure why he was being so careful with them right now, since the damage to the clothing was considerable and they were probably only good for the garbage now; still, it was the only pair he had here and as there didn't seem to be any Salvation Army shops around, he'd have to find a way to make them do.

Pushing the sock down and partly off his foot, his fingers brushed the band and the anti-possession charm and he smiled fondly, thinking of Bobby. He hoped the old reprobate was okay.

And taking care of Sammy. It hurt to think of Sam out there, alone and grieving. But Sam was _alive_ and, in the end, the grief would pass and Sam would go on with his life. Sam _had_ to, if for not other reason than Dean wasn't sure he could handle it if he thought Sam would torment himself forever.

The wound itself was pretty vicious looking, the bite going straight down to the bone, ripping tendon and muscle and nerves along the way. It was bleeding heavily, and the pain was like lightning bolts going off in his leg. He heard the sound of Tillih's stone pestle mixing the paste in the bowl then she walked toward him, still stirring.

She scooped a portion of the salve out of the bowl and reached for his leg, then unexpectedly, she recoiled, snatching her hand back. He eyed her sharply.

Taking a deep breath, she met his stare and gestured helplessly. "I'm sorry. It's so…so horrible. I…you must be in such pain." Her voice broke slightly then she collected herself and said briskly, "This foolishness accomplishes nothing. Forgive me my weakness."

His eyes still hooded and shadowed, he nodded then he glanced down at his leg as she spread the salve across the wound, wincing at the sight of the exposed bone and muscle, and being acutely aware of the torn nerves, each one of which was on fire. Just below the wound, the silver anklet with Bobby's charm looked dull in the dim light in the hut's interior.

The effects of the salve began to kick in and he sighed and closed his eyes as the fire eased. "There," Tillih said. "And in a few days, it will be gone."

"Yeah, just in time for the next demon to show up and do it again." He fought to keep his tone neutral.

"Yes. This is Hell, and we are their amusement. They always wait until we feel hope again, hope that we may escape their notice for a while, and then they return. Yet, we are the lucky ones."

"Lucky? I'm not sure the others would agree with you."

"Sometimes the beasts laugh and delight in telling us what the souls of the dead, the souls sent here, are suffering. The others _would_ agree."

For a moment, Dean was back at the first crossroads, where he saved Evan from other man's deal. He could see her, eyes glowing red, and hear her telling him how his father would be screaming, if he still had a voice with which to scream., and he knew she was right. They_were_ lucky. And it needled him.

"Why?_Why_ are we lucky?" He swept his arm around, including all of their surroundings in the gesture. "Do I want to stay here for all eternity? Hell, no. It sucks. But you're right. It could be a lot worse. Why isn't it?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I do not know. Perhaps because none of us truly belong here, taken unjustly, and this is as much as they are permitted to do."

He wanted to challenge that, demand to know if she believed that some higher power, one she seemed to believe in, would agree to let Hell do even this much to innocent people--not that he included himself under the heading "innocent"--but then his anger faded: if it gave the people in the settlement some comfort to be able to cling to some belief that there was a justice out there that might one day save them, there was no way he would trample on that. All he finally said was, "Then why am I here? I made the deal; I belong here."

"You do not!" Tillih said sharply. "Yes, even _with_ your deal; you did it for no personal gain, only to save your brother. You think yourself not worthy. I do not understand how you can believe such a thing. No one else has ever sought to help another under attack. Even I have confined my aid to what I can do after to ease the suffering."

Dean shrugged. "It's just my…job. What I've always done. There are lots of people who would have done the same thing."

"Not here," Tillih replied. She was silent for a few minutes, as she continued to apply the paste to the wound, then she said, "You should not be here. You should try to find a way to leave."

"Leave the settlement? What would that accomplish?"

"No, Dean, I meant leave _Hell_. You do not belong here, deal or not, and you at least still have the courage to try."

He stared at her. "There are ways out of Hell?" Then he quickly shook his head. "Even if there are, I can't do it. It would break the deal and Sammy would die."

Tillih frowned. "I do not understand, Dean. What do you mean?"

"When I made the deal with the crossroads demon, it was she would bring Sam back to life and she would get me after a year. If I try to welsh on the deal, then Sam would die again. I can't do that; I won't."

"But you have _honored_ your part of the deal. You agreed to give yourself to Hell in one year. Well," she looked around the hut, "are you not in Hell? Did you not present yourself when the year was up? You have done everything the deal demanded of you." She studied him. "Was there anything said in the making of the deal that you had to _stay_ in Hell after you went there?'

Dean cast his mind back to that day, that moment. It stood out in stark relief, every second, every word, every look, forever imprinted in his memory. He watched it unspool behind his eyes, then he shook his head.

"No. Nothing."

"Demons are bound by the words of the deal, Dean, as are humans. Humans never understand that; they only know what they really _want_ to get and they always believe that's what they've agreed to. They never really think about the _words_; that's why humans _always_ lose. But demons are stuck with the words also. If she never spelled out, _in_ words, that you could never leave Hell, then you have no obligation to stay.

"You said your father made a deal with a powerful demon for your life. _And_ that he escaped a year ago. Yet, you did not die, did you?" Her voice demanded an answer.

"No," Dean whispered. "I didn't." He was silent for a few minutes. "But what difference does that make? Short of another Hellmouth opening, there's no way out. And no matter what Sam might want to do, Bobby will at least keep his head enough not to let my little brother open another damn Hellmouth!"

She looked troubled and about to speak but, at that instant, the little girl was carried into the hut by her parents, her wound still bleeding. Tillih directed them to lay the child on a stone bench and she began to apply the salve at once. The child's cries began to diminish to sniffles.

Dean watched it all but did not see it. His mind was busy tumbling over and over what Tillih had said.

Was there any chance she was right? And if she was, was there anything he could do about it?

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**A/N**: Typing and editing as fast as I can. I hope to have the next section posted sometime next week. Thanks again for reading the story!


	5. Each of Us Bears His Own Hell

**Disclaimer**: Wishing and hoping and praying…

**A/N**: Posted a little faster this time! I'm still hoping to have everything done before Thanksgiving. Thanks again to everyone for reading the story and letting me know what you think.

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_**Chapter 5: "Each of Us Bears His Own Hell"--Virgil**_

"And stay out!" The furious woman glared at Sam's retreating back, before turning to Bobby. "He's not welcome here again until he learns some manners!" she fumed.

Bobby gave a long-suffering sigh and nodded. "Sorry, Marie. You're not seeing him at his best. This has been killing him."

Marie's face softened. "I can see that, but Bobby, the bébé must learn to accept this or it _will_ kill him. For real. What he wants, I do not think is possible to get. Hell does not give up its possessions easily."

"His father made it out."

"Because a Hellmouth was opened and hundreds of demons escaped to plague and destroy us. How many died because of it? Would you think of doing it again?" she asked sharply.

"Of course not, Marie. How could you even think that? All I meant was, don't count a Winchester out. John grabbed an opportunity when it came and Dean can, too. Besides, we ain't looked everywhere or tried everything yet. I'm not giving up on the boy. _Either_ one of them," he added.

She nodded and smiled slightly. "I'll keep looking, Bobby. For you, and the pauvre bébé suffering in Hell." She glanced at Sam and sighed. "And for him. He will do something very bad, I fear, if he cannot find another way."

When he reached his truck, Sam was stalking back and forth like a furious lion. Bobby walked up to him and soundly slapped him on the back of a head, startling the younger man into stillness.

"What was _that_ for?" Sam demanded.

"Being every bit the obnoxious, stubborn asshole your father could be!" Bobby softened his tone. "Sam, that was stupid. You can't keep antagonizing Marie or any of the other people we need--something you've been doing a good job of over the last few weeks."

"Need them?" Sam said with a sneer. "They've been useless!"

"You want I should whup you again? Did you think it would be easy to break someone out of the most maximum security prison in the universe, boy? They don't have anything to hand but they've all agreed to keep looking." He reached out an grabbed Sam's arm. "You have to gear it down, Sam. Or there'll be more stuff like what happened ten days ago."

Sam had the grace to look sheepish. "He said the ritual has a history and that it had worked before."

"And_I_ told you it wouldn't and that he was a fraud. None of the _real_ power workers would ask for money, _not_ for trying to get someone out of Hell; they wouldn't want to taint their gift by trying to make a profit off of a good deed."

"I checked, Bobby, and it was a real Druidic ritual--."

"Which means it wasn't designed to deal with _demons_, Sam. If you weren't so damned crazy at this point, you would have realized that." He stepped closer and his words turned fierce. "If you kill yourself trying to get Dean out, then everything he did, everything he's suffering--_is_ suffering--was for _nothing_. You can't disrespect him like that."

Sam blinked rapidly several times and Bobby could see he was fighting back tears. "I'd rather have him here and cursing me out than there and suffering forever. I promised him that no matter what it took, I'd save him. And I intend to keep that promise, even if I couldn't keep Hell from taking him in the first place."

Sam pivoted on one heel and climbed into the cab of the truck. Bobby shook his head, a grim expression on his face. He was going to have to keep a sharp eye on the boy, to make sure Sam didn't do something mindbogglingly idiotic.

He hadn't done that with Dean--he'd left Dean alone after Sam had been killed—and look at what the hell happened _there_.

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Dean stood in the doorway, watching Tillih mix up more sticky stuff. There had been several demon attacks over the last few weeks (as best as he could judge it) and she was trying to stockpile some of the medication.

Dean had had considerable need of its healing properties. He had never turned away from helping innocents before and he was not going to let Hell change that. It would have been the ultimate defeat. So he kept putting himself between the others and the demons, and paying the price in blood and pain and guts spilling across the sand, and hazy memories of Tillih's hands easing the agony and sitting with him as he healed.

They had had a breather of two days so far and Dean had been thinking about what Tillih had said. At first, he had pushed it to the back of his mind, not wanting to let hope in only to have it taken away. But the words would not be denied. They had taken root and were now flowering.

"_Demons are bound by the words of the deal, Dean, as are humans…If she never spelled out, in words, that you could never leave Hell, then you have no obligation to stay. You said your father made a deal with a powerful demon for your life. And that he escaped a year ago. Yet, you did not die, did you?"_

If he could try to find a way out, fight his way out if need be, with no harm coming to Sam, he would take whatever risk he had to.

He cleared his throat and Tillih jumped slightly, startled, then she turned to look at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. "So, you_really_ believe I did everything I had to do with the deal when I came here?" He kept his tone as casual as he could. _Nothing important here, nope, just an ordinary question_. "That if I even _try_ to leave--or, you know, really _do_ get out—nothing bad would happen to Sammy? And Hell wouldn't have any more claim on me?"

"Did it have any further claim on your father? Or did he move on to his true reward?" She moved closer. "And you stand here now--," she hit her fist twice against his arm, "--solid and alive. Your father's escape did not cause a breach of his deal for your life."

Dean nodded, looking past her, her words reverberating in his own internal dialogue. He realized he had already made his decision.

"I think," he said slowly, "I think I'm going to see if I can find a way out. If it won't hurt Sam, I have to try. You know, I worried for a bit that if I did, I wouldn't get the stuff that passes for food and water here, but then I figure if they want to keep us alive to play with, they have to give us that crap--uh, sorry--to eat and drink no matter _where_ we are. When I first got dumped in Hell, I must have in between 'feedings', so I didn't get anything until I found this place."

He could feel his excitement rising and he began to pace, to move. "Yeah, worth a try," he said softly, more to himself than to her. "Tillih, Sam's out there and he's still a target. Protecting him, that's always been my job. If there's _any_ chance I can get back there, I can't pass it up. I _can't_." His expression had turned fierce.

She said nothing at first, turning away and sitting down at the table. To his mind, she seemed to be wrestling with whether or not to say something. Finally, she sighed and met his eyes.

"I understand that which drives you, Dean. It is strange I never considered before that we would be provided the same sustenance anywhere, but I think now you are correct. So," she drew in a deep, albeit shaky breath, "I will tell you something. About the man who was here for a short time, and what he told us he saw."

"Man?"

"It seems like ages ago--and it probably was--he had been left outside. He had been brutalized by demons and dragged here. I remember one of the fiends laughing and kicking the poor torn body aside as they all left.

"We took him in. I tended to him and after he had healed enough to speak, he swore he had seen a _portal_ of some kind, a gateway near the butte we can see on the horizon, and it seemed open. He had no idea where it went but he chose to believe wherever it ended, it was not here in Hell. After he was on his feet again, he refused to stay, saying he would rather risk reaching the portal--and chance wherever it led--than stay here. He never returned. I always assumed he had died the true death for lack of food and water; or that demons, angered at his boldness, had snatched his soul and condemned it to Hellfire." A wondering expression crossed her face. "But perhaps he escaped after all!"

"Tillih," Dean asked softly, "did he give any idea how far that butte was?"

"In his condition, it was hard to tell, but he did not think it is as far as the eye would suggest. Perhaps a few days." She raised a hand, forestalling his next words. "I know, I know. Why then have we never tried to find this portal?" She sighed. "Cowardice, I suppose."

At his questioning look, she smiled ruefully. "We had not made the connection that the land would provide for us anywhere, but even if we had…" Tillih leaned forward. "You must understand, out there amidst the beasts and the demons that lie in wait, we fear dying!"

"Why?_This_," he swept his arm around, indicating the settlement, "is better? You're already in Hell; death would be a release!"

"But that is it: No one here, including me, is sure it would be. In our heart of hearts, we wonder--though aloud we continue our belief in a higher Power--would a just God permit something like this to happen? So…we all fear we must somehow _deserve_ this, that we _truly_ belong in Hell. And if we die, our souls would be condemned to hellfire for all eternity. We all live in the hope that someday Heaven will send a rescuer, thus proving we do _not_ belong here. It is better to live--however poorly--in hope, than to chance everything and lose all. I know," she added, catching his expression, "it is not what I said to you when you first came, but I, too, prefer to live in what may be a foolish hope."

Dean shook his head. "I learned the hard way not to lean on hope; it always dumps you on the side of the road. It's better to _know_, to try--and to be free."

Her smile turned affectionate. "We are all not so brave or strong as you, Dean Winchester. We would rather live as mice than die as tigers."

He shifted uncomfortably at the praise, then said again, "I _have_ to try."

"I know," Tillih replied quietly. She seemed to be ready to say more, but the words were interrupted by the laughing roar that always signified the arrival of demons. It was followed by the shrill scream of a child that cut off in mid-cry.

Dean was pounding to the door before Tillih. He raced outside to see the little girl he had saved several weeks ago, lying still on the ground, ripped open from chin to groin, her eyes wide and staring emptily at the burning sky, terror still writ across her face, and he knew she was dead. A pain that had nothing to do with any physical injury seared through him and something inside snapped.

"Enough!" he roared, pulling the ever-present spike from his waistband. He flew at the cluster of demons, who laughed at his approach.

"Look. One of the toys has grown courage." The black of the eyes gleamed like obsidian. "I _hate_ courage in a monkey."

It did not bother with the whip, pulling instead a sword of black flame completely out of the air itself. Dean dodged the first blow and managed to thrust the spike into the demon's side. The beast bellowed and caught Dean's shoulder, digging the talons in deep. Dean gritted his teeth against the pain, then he felt himself lifted and thrown against the stone walls of the well. He blinked, trying to clear his double vision.

It cleared in time for him to see the furious demon standing over him, the dark sword poised to strike. "You have proven to be more trouble than you are worth, human!"

Dean knew it was over and he was sure that, despite Tillih's belief in his worth, if he died in Hell, his deal-given soul would stay here--even if it would not return to Hell had he been able to escape and had he died back on Earth. He thought he _felt_ a movement behind him and then, to his surprise, the demon faltered, stepping back a pace as if uncertain, and even afraid. It cocked its head as if listening to some silent voice and the horned head inclined slightly. It looked at him again and then, without warning, slammed the point of the sword into the ground inches from Dean's torso. It took all of Dean's self-control not to jump away; he would not give the black-eyed bastard the satisfaction.

"Still," the demon hissed, "That would end the sport too soon." It drew back on scaled foot and connected solidly with Dean' stomach, causing him to double over gasping for breath. Then it turned and strode away.

Dean felt Tillih's hand then, gentle and soothing on his back, but his mind was re-playing what had happened. Adding up the few puzzle pieces he had acquired. A picture was forming, though it was incomplete.

Then he carefully closed it down. _Think happy thoughts. 'Cause you never know..._

The child's parents were weeping over her corpse. Dean watched for a moment, sympathy clear on his face. Then his expression hardened and his gaze took in the settlement's entire population, which had gathered after the demons left.

"Look at that," he shouted. "You're staying here, not even trying for the damn portal, because you're afraid of dying? You think hiding here will keep you safe? There is _no_ safety in Hell! The bastards will kill you whenever they feel like it." He stared at them grimly. "I have no intention of playing their game anymore. If I do not escape prison, it will not be because I refused to try! I'm leaving. Anyone who wants to come is welcome."

There was silence for a moment, then Tillih's voice came from behind him. "I will go with you, Dean. I will cower here no longer."

He did not turn, continuing to face the others, his expression set and hard, but he nodded. "You have until the next brighter sky to think about it. Then I'm out of here."

Tillih spent much of the "night" making up more of the salve, for them to take with them. Since they only received enough food and water for one ration each time, there was no point in planning to take any along. Either Dean was right and they would receive sustenance beyond the settlement, or they would be dead.

When the sky behind the fire lightened, they exited the hut. All of the inhabitants of the settlement stood there, the adults all armed with spikes. When Dean and Tilleh left the enclosure behind, everyone followed in their wakes.

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**A/N**: There should be three posts after this, two chapters and a combined chapter and epilogue. (I have to do a re-write on the last chapter and the epilogue, as well as edits on the other two chapters). Let me know how you think it's going!


	6. When You're Going Through Hell

** Disclaimer**: Kripke _still_ refuses to share!

**A/N**: Yet another chapter, wherein Bobby learns why you should never give Sam more than two beers, and Dean puts things together. Thanks to all for the incredible encouragement; you guys are fantastic!

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_**Chapter 6: "If you are going through hell, keep going."--Churchill**_

_Well,__**that**__ had been a disaster_, Bobby thought sourly, wincing at the warbling coming from his kitchen. Bobby understood now why Dean had always given him the cutoff sign after Sam had had two beers; he'd always just assumed Dean was being Dean's usual overprotective self but he'd clearly been wrong. Three beers and it was karaoke time. Who would have believed someone Sam's size could have been drunk under the table by a schoolgirl?

Not that he could blame Sam for being a bit upset. They had gone to the Old Woman with the first stirrings of hope they'd felt in a while. Bobby had gotten her name from a contact who dealt with the…_darker_ side of the supernatural and it was a sign of Bobby's desperation that even considered seeing her at all. In that more shadowed world, she was spoken of in whispers, and no one used her name. It was "Old Woman," even to her face; her true age was unknown. It amused her, and Bobby had shivered at the icy humor in her eyes, when he had used it.

The humor was gone by the time he and Sam had left.

When they had first arrived, they had discovered their mission was already known. "You seek one taken by the hand of Evil," she had stated.

Sam had nodded, bangs flying. "Is there a way to get Dean out of Hell?" he asked, his tone sharp and brusque.

Bobby had cringed slightly but the Old Woman had been amused by that as well. She got her point across, about who precisely ruled in this house, by taking her time, insisting they sit and join her in something to eat before anything further was done. Bobby had had to lay a warning hand on Sam's arm more than once to keep the boy from saying or doing something that would get them thrown out. Something Sam was becoming a real expert at. Of all the traits Sam could have inherited from his father, the ability to piss off people you needed help from was one he could have done without.

Finally, she had led them to a room deep into the basement. So deep, in fact, that Bobby was pretty sure it no longer really _was_ a basement, but some underground chamber. It was lit by many short, fat candles in niches in the walls and around a large circle painted on the floor. After indicating they should join her on the floor, she pulled to her an ancient grimoire, the worn leather cover inscribed with sigils. Bobby's hands practically itched to snatch it and get a look at its contents. The Old Woman spent the next hour molding the spell and Bobby knew he was out of his league five minutes after she started.

After the chant had stopped, they sat in silence. Bobby could sense Sam's impatience, but the younger man knew enough to realize spells could not be hurried. They worked when they worked. Abruptly, without warning, the Old Woman stiffened and her eyes rolled back, only the whites now showing. Blind--yet Bobby knew she was seeing more now than she did with ordinary pupils.

She gave a shriek, high and piercing, and Bobby thought he had heard terror in it. Then her eyes were normal again, except they were wide and dark. Gradually, they returned to their usual pale gray color and her breathing, which had been hard and fast, evened out..

So did Bobby's.

She had come quickly to her senses and stared at Sam. Then she had hurried from the room, Sam hot on her heels. She had not stopped and faced him until they were back upstairs, near the front door.

She had pointed at the door. "Leave my house. Now."

Sam had blinked in surprise. "I don't understand. What did you learn?"

"That this is not anything I have any intention of getting involved in."

"Why? They said you were the best!"

"I am not without power. Or allies. But neither would help me if I crossed the one who holds your brother's contract. Go. Now!"

Bobby had thought he'd seen fear in her pale eyes. He was _sure_ Sam had; the younger man had stared at her with contempt--and she had flinched before it--before spinning on one heel and striding out of her house. When they had reached the cabin, Bobby had caught a mutter from Sam, only making out the words, "…could make a deal." Bobby had charged ahead of Sam and forced the younger man to a halt.

"I didn't just hear what I thought I did, Sam, did I?" he ground out between gritted teeth. "What is it with Winchesters? You all born with a missing brain part?"

"It was my fault, Bobby," Sam said wearily, as if all the fight was gone.

"And Dean thought it was all _his_ fault! See how well _that_ turned out?" Bobby sighed and softened his tone. "I've heard you tell Dean over the last year he was selfish and hypocritical. What would doing the same thing make you?

"And I'm not even sure you could do it. This ain't an ordinary deal, not so's I can tell. Someone big enough to scare the bejeebus out of the Old Woman is involved and it seems whoever it is, it wants_Dean_ specifically. If they'd wanted you, they could have used Dean as a bargaining chip any time during the year he was still here. And they didn't."

Bobby could see the defeat in Sam's eyes and the sudden slum of the younger man's shoulders. Sam slipped past Bobby without another word and disappeared into the cabin.

A half hour later, Bobby had heard the singing start and had gone into the kitchen to find four beer bottles scattered across the table and Sam glassy-eyed.

"Sam," he'd said, prying yet a fifth bottle from the younger man's clenched fingers, "this ain't gonna help."

Sam had looked up at him, a film of tears in his eyes, and had said softly, "Nothing is, is it, Bobby?" Then he had gone back to singing. "_The road is long, with many a winding turn…_"

There hadn't been anything to say and Bobby just sat now, cleaning and re-cleaning his rifles and shotguns for something for his hands to do. He'd never had any children and John's boys had filled an empty place in his life. Now one of them was lost—Bobby had to admit, at least to himself, that he no longer believed they would be able to help Dean, a shadow on his heart that would never be lifted--and the other was heading right over the cliff, and he had no idea how to stop him.

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The freedom train had been traveling for two days now, the unrelenting heat making it difficult sometimes to remember where they were going and why. Even through the soles of his biker boots, Dean could feel the blazing temperature radiating off the sand. At least they were making progress, each step bringing them closer to the butte, at the base of which was the portal. He hoped.

Dean's idea they would be fed wherever they were had proven correct, with a brackish pool about as deep as a rain puddle appearing three times yesterday and twice more so far today, accompanied by the same noxious slime that passed for food here. Though their most recent "meal" had not been very long ago, already hunger and thirst had come raging back.

Their little caravan was already lighter by three. A straggler--an elderly man--had been taken by a sand lizard only a few hours after they left the settlement. By the time Dean had raced back from the front of the group, the man had been pulled under the sand by the beast.

Then last "night" several of the flying things had descended on the small group and had made off with two of the children. They had finally stopped for some sleep, well after the sky had darkened behind the eternal fire. Several of the men had taken watch, insisting that he get rest since he had been helping those who needed encouragement during the long walk. After some hesitation, he had agreed and had curled up in a corner to sleep as well as he could in the face of the never-ending hunger and thirst, the pain of blistered skin and the perpetual plague of insects. It had turned out to be a mistake.

He had been awakened by screams of terror and rose in time to see a flyer carrying off a child. Blasting up from the ground, his spiky sword in his hand, he had barreled toward the predator but it was already too high to stop. He had whirled as yet another of the flying monsters--now that he was close enough, he had seen scales instead of feathers, leathery wings, huge talons and a beak that was filled with savage-looking teeth--descended, striking at it and plunging the spike straight into the breastbone. With an eerie death howl, the monster had collapsed and died. One of the other men had managed a sharp blow at a second predator, slicing the wing and the beast had flown off, listing badly.

Which had not prevented yet a third of the creatures from snatching an infant and disappearing into the sky.

Dean had walked away into the shadows then, shaking off Tillih's concern. It wasn't that he didn't know that he had been right to bring them all with him, for there was no safety anywhere in Hell. But knowing that was not enough. If they succeeded in reaching the portal and escaping Hell, he would regret forever the ones he had failed to save.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he stumbled slightly, drawing a squawk of protest from the child he carried on his back. The youngest of the children, a little girl, had become too exhausted to keep moving. Dean refused to lose anyone else and he had scooped her up and swung her around behind him. If he had to crawl to the portal, he would not leave her behind.

Tillih kept pace with him, doggedly and without complaint. He gestured toward the butte with his chin. "The speed we're moving--still on track for the same three-four day hike?"

She looked apologetic. "I do not know, Dean. I've never been to the butte and do not know the speed at which he was brought to us, but considering his condition when he arrived…." Her voice trailed off.

Dean nodded. "Being dragged by a bunch of demons. Probably covered ground a _lot_ faster than we are." He sighed. "Whatever. We just keep going 'til we get there."

"You should rest," she said softly. "You have not only been carrying the child a long way now, but also helping everyone else who struggled. You cannot keep going like this."

Dean kept his eyes on the way ahead, eyes that did not reflect the grim smile that touched his lips. "We can't afford it. We can't delay getting to the portal. It isn't just the damned things out there that might eat us; we also have no idea when demons might decide to drop in on the settlement. If they realize what we're doing, they'll make sure we never get the chance again."

"I understand." She glanced behind her. The others of the group looked exhausted. "I will make sure they understand as well." With that, she turned and headed back to the rest; Dean could hear her talking quietly to them, though he could not make out the words.

It took all of Dean's strength of will to keep moving. Tilleh had been right about that much: Between hunger, thirst, heat, carrying the little girl, helping other who faltered and the seemingly-endless march, Dean had long since passed beyond exhaustion.

On the other hand, this was Hell, and it's not as if he could expect to ever feel any better.

He shifted the child a bit to ease the strain on his neck and shoulders, dipped his head and continued to bull his way forward. Abruptly, he stopped, with one foot in the air ready to take the next step. He placed it down slowly and stared ahead, frowning. An instant later, Tilleh was by his side, a worried expression on her face. She peered at the sere, twisted land ahead in puzzlement, then turned a questioningly glance in his direction.

"Dean, what do you see?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. It's just something I…feel." He swung the little girl around and placed her gently on the ground. Smiling at her, he indicated she should stay there, then he began to walk forward. After a few strides, he stopped again and carefully reached one hand out, then yelped and pulled it back, shaking it vigorously.

"What is it?" Tilleh asked, grabbing his hand and looking it over. It appeared fine and she looked confused.

Dean was surprised as well at the lack of any apparent injury. "Weird. It was like getting a shock; I figured my hand would be red, at least." He studied the empty air before him. "There's something there." He gestured at the child. "Stay here with her, okay? I want to check this out."

He indicated that everyone should take a break, and the rest of the little group sank to the ground gratefully. Dean then walked in one direction until he could barely see the others and he reached out again. The shock came immediately. He then re-traced his steps and walked past his troupe and continued on almost as far the other way. Again, he was rewarded with a sharp snap of power into his hand when he tested the air ahead of him. He returned to where Tillih was standing with the little girl.

"I'm going to try to walk through it," he announced.

Tillih looked alarmed. "Dean, is that wise? This could be a demonic trap. We do not know."

"No, we don't. We also don't know if we can get around it. It extends at least as far as I walked in each direction. So, I need to see if we can make it through. Otherwise, this may all have been for nothing."

She did not look happy but she understood the problem and didn't try again to stop him. He pivoted and strode up to the point where he had first encountered the invisible barrier. Taking a deep breath, he took another step forward and hit the barrier immediately. Small electric shocks played across his skin. He kept going. Resistance increased and as it did, so did the strength and duration of the shocks. Dean gritted his teeth and pushed back. Small groans forced their way past his lips but he refused to be stopped.

Then, suddenly, he was through. He whirled around and he could see a shimmering translucent wall; the barrier was visible on this side. Through it he could see, though distorted, the bleak land he had just left, as well as Tillih and the little girl, staring at the place where he had disappeared. The "wall" continued to his right and left, but it curved around as if beginning a circle.

He did a one-eighty and stopped dead, blinking as he took in the bright sunlight and the light, cool breeze. Before him, all was lush and green, except where flowers grew and then brilliant colors danced in the wind. Beyond the open lea, trees stood, majestic and as tall as redwoods. As he drank it all in, a part of him that had grown cold under the fiery sky of Hell warmed again. Amidst the sounds of birds and insects, Dean heard something else, something that made even his hair sit up and take notice.

The sound of running water.

It came from beyond the trees. Dean hurried across the glen and then plunged into the sun-dappled forest. After a few minutes, the forest directly ahead of him ended, while the trees continued to his right. In front of him was a small river, brilliantly clear all the way to the bottom, and to the left, a low cliff stood, maybe seventy feet high, with what seemed to be a cave opening about forty feet up the face. A stone path led up the cliff face to the cave.

Beyond the river, Dean could see the same shimmering wall through which he could see another distorted view of barren, twisted desert of Hell. The wall here also curved, this time back in the direction from which he had come. Though he could not see it past the trees or the cliff, he was now sure that the wall was there as well and he felt bitter disappointment. This was not a way out of Hell; it was just some strange, small enclave amidst the desolation and torment of Hell. He had no idea how it had come to be, but it provided them no escape.

His elation gone, Dean was reminded of his terrible thirst. He threw himself on the ground next to the river, scooping up water with both hands. For the first time since being dragged into Hell, the thirst was not a burning fire in him. He ducked his head under the water and splashed more all over himself. Then he pushed himself up. He would have to go back and bring everyone here. He didn't even care where here was. He knew they could not stay, since it led nowhere safe and it would be a trap if demons came, but it might provide a respite.

Provided, that is, they could really afford to take the time here--and without knowing when demons might next choose to visit the now-empty settlement, it probably wouldn't be safe for them to spend any time at all here. _Damn. Those poor people could have used the rest._

Then again, they needed to get out of Hell altogether even more.

_//Dean.//_

Dean whirled around, eyes narrowed, but he saw no one. After a few minutes of silence, he relaxed. He was tired, hungry, worried about the people with him; his mind was playing tri--."

_//Dean.//_

"Show yourself!" he growled. "I don't have the time or the patience for games."

_//Dean. Come.//_

Okay, that was _not_ in his mind!

He stared up at the cliff wall and the cave opening. Damned if it didn't seem to be coming from there. He was torn about going to investigate. It could be a trap, yet it hadn't…_felt_ that way. There had been something warm, welcoming, about the tone.

In the end, he could not just leave. He had to know who, _what_ it was that called him, that knew his name. Dean walked to the base of the cliff. The rocky path up to the cave entrance was steep and narrow, better suited to a goat than a human. Still, though he would never step foot in a damn plane again--because planes _do_ crash, Sammy, and that _wasn't_ really a killer clown, just a supernatural bastard pretending to be one!--he wasn't afraid of heights. He started up the path.

Dean made sure he kept his eyes on the goal, and not on the drop an inch to his right. At one point, his foot came down on a largish stone that rolled out from under it and he almost went over the edge. Breathing hard, he hugged the wall for a moment then tightened his lips and continued the climb. He gratefully ducked inside when he reached the entrance.

The cave widened almost immediately past the entrance. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he began to see a faint golden glow ahead. He moved toward it and went about thirty feet when he realized the cave made a sharp turn to the right and the light was in that direction. Turning the corner, his eyes widened. Ahead lay a large chamber all aglow, the diffuse light seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.

The chamber was filled with knives and swords of all sizes and descriptions; they hung on the walls and lay on a thick richly decorated cloth that covered a large rectangular table at the far end of the room. Some were beautiful to look at, made of the finest metal, inlaid with precious stones or inscribed with unknown writing and symbols. Others appeared to have borne the weight of many years, their edges dulled or chipped, their surfaces pitted and covered with rust and the debris of ages.

He started to enter the chamber then hesitated. There was a strange_pull_, as if something was calling to him, though he did not hear again that soft voice in his head. Frowning, he turning to follow the tug but stumbled as his foot came down on something on the cavern floor. Dean glanced down and his eyes widened. A hilt lay beneath his foot.

He bent and picked it up. It was covered in dust. Brushing some the accumulated dirt away, Dean saw dull-looking, rusted metal beneath and some kind of plain stones set in the pitted metal.. He twisted the hilt in his hand so that he could see the bottom. Puzzlingly, there was not only no blade attached to the hilt, but there was also not even a spot where a blade might have once been, or been intended to go. It was as if someone had desired to make a hilt only, with no intention of ever using it for anything other than a doorstop.

Yet, he could not put it back down. He realized this hilt had been the source of the pull. In some way, it called to him. It seemed to fit his hand perfectly, as if it had been made for him, and despite the chill of the cavern, it was warm to his touch. Without knowing precisely why, he tucked the hilt into his belt.

As he began to move forward again, his fell on a small pedestal on which lay a rolled up parchment. He walked over and carefully unrolled the scroll. The words inked therein with a careful hand were in no language he had ever seen. At least, not at first: As he watched, the letters blurred and re-sharpened into English. _O-kay, just a teeny bit of supernatural shit going on here!_

He began to read the message within the scroll:

"_Greetings, warrior. If you stand here now, then you have proven worthy of entrance to this place. It exists outside of the normal ken of men._"

And within Hell, he thought. Or was that not true when the scroll had been written? Or…? He smiled grimly. Maybe _other_ things were true instead.

"_Here rests the Great Sword when it is not called to battle. Whether you are one chosen to wield it against Darkness remains to be seen. The test is simple: You must choose it from all the others. If you fail, you will be returned whence—"_

"Whence?" Dean rolled his eyes. Did anyone _really_ talk like that?

"—_you came and you will never again gain entry here._

_Know that the Sword will always recognize the face of Evil and alert you to Evil's presence but be aware also that the Sword will always__**seek**__ battle. If you wish to keep its presence hidden for any reason from the Darkness, it must be concealed within one of the inscribed boxes you will find here. The inscriptions contain a powerful spell to shield the Sword's power from eyes that would seek it._

_Choose well."_

He looked up at the array of knives and swords and sighed. While this "Great Sword" sounded as if it could be a really nifty weapon--Eat your heart out, Ruby, you and your damn knives!--he didn't have a freaking clue how to figure out which one it was. Since it was a _sword_, it would make sense to eliminate the knives, but Dean knew it was never, ever that simple. Not in the Winchester world, anyway.

The damn thing was probably disguising itself and laughing at him.

He eyeballed each one carefully, but touched none of them. Touching might be considered choice and if the choice were wrong, he'd be back out there in Hell, no closer to the portal and no better armed. After a while, he rubbed his forehead. He could feel a killer headache coming on. Dean blinked suddenly, realizing that the headache was the only pain he felt. Not only was he no longer thirsty, but he was also not hungry or tired. Damn. He wished he knew if they would be safe here from demons; it might be worth hunkering down for a while if they were, but without being sure….

_//Dean.//_

He whirled around, unable to pinpoint the source of the whisper in his mind. "Where--_who_--the hell are you, damn it?" he growled, patience wearing thin.

_//Dean.//_

There was a slight tugging and after a moment's hesitation, he surrendered to it. Like an invisible rope, it pulled him toward the back of the chamber, past all the weaponry, to what appeared to be a narrow crack in the back wall. As he got closer, he could see the crack was wider than he'd first thought, but when he realized the pull was leading him into the narrow opening, he balked. The damn thing didn't look big enough for him to fit inside of, even sideways, and the thought of being stuck in there, unable to go forward or back or to move at all, trapped between walls of stone…he shuddered.

But the tugging was unrelenting and Dean gritted his teeth and followed it. If there were a chance of getting a weapon that could enable him to save everyone out there depending on him, he wasn't about to let something this stupid stop him.

Turning sideways, he began to slip into the opening. The fit was too damn tight for his liking, with the walls scraping at him front and back. As he progressed, it seemed to be getting narrower. If he went any further, he'd get stuck, he knew it! Dean could feel panic starting to rise.

_//Dean.//_ Warm, soothing. _//Safe.//_

Breathing in and out several times slowly, he decided to trust the whisper. He continued inching his way through the crack. Then, without warning, the tunnel turned and the golden light from the chamber disappeared. Dean wrestled with a touch of panic again; being able to see the glow had helped to keep the fear of being trapped alone and in the dark at bay. He might have tried to work his way back if he hadn't suddenly realized that the fissure was _widening_. Taking a minute to even out his breathing, he started forward again.

It made one more turn and then he was standing before a massive cavern, also glowing, but this was softer, gentler, a gleaming silver. Unlike the chamber, this formation appeared totally natural, with icy stalactites marching across the roof of the cavern. The "rope" tugged again, toward the center of the room.

Dean followed the siren call, moving into the cavern. When he reached the approximate center, he heard the whisper of his name again, from_above_. Startled, he looked up. Directly overhead, a huge frozen stalactite shone with an icy light. Almost without thought, Dean pulled the hilt from his belt.

There was a sharp crack and the stalactite broke away at its base from the ceiling of the room and hurtled straight down, right at him, its point as wickedly sharp as a sword's point. Dean stood his ground.

An instant before it plunged into him, it halted, hanging suspended. Dean reached up and grasped it at its base. Like the hilt, it felt warm to his touch. He looked at the base and then at the hilt, and then he slammed the two together.

Though he had expected _something_ to occur, he was surprised by the power of the reaction. Radiant, blazing, fiery-cold silver light virtually exploded outward, blinding in its intensity. His head and ears rang with the sound of a triumphant roar and he winced. Almost instantly, the sound dropped to just a couple of levels above a whisper, the roar becoming a gentle crooning.

The Sword was _singing_ to him!

The intensity of the light faded and he now held a complete sword in his hand. The hilt, no longer rusted or battered, gleamed with a silvery sheen, beautiful designs etched on both sides of the pommel and on the crosspieces. The "stones" were now gems that seemed to glow with an internal light. The blade still blazed with cold fire, though much dimmed, and Dean could almost see the power that surged through it.

_//Iceflame.//_

It took him a minute to realize the Sword was introducing itself. "Nice name. You already know mine." The Sword crooned again.

A smile touched his lip. Maybe he could teach it Metallica. He'd love to see Sam's face when it began to belt out "Ride the Lightning." Then one fist clenched. He would find that damn portal and he _would_ see Sam again, even if all of Hell stood between him and his brother.

_//Yes. Battle!//_

Dean laughed and was almost surprised by the sound. He hadn't laughed, truly laughed, in a long time, not as the year counted down to an end and certainly not since he had arrived in Hell. He'd almost come to believe he didn't remember how.

"Sooner or later," Dean replied. "Let's go. I've got people waiting for me." He studied the Sword again. "So," he said, "are you my vorpal sword and do I go galumphing home?"

Dean could almost _see_ the Sword blinking at that. //_**Great**__ Sword. Vorpal?_//

Dean gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Yet another in a long line of lousy Dean Winchester jokes. But--and I want to be really clear about this--you are _not_, under any circumstances, to tell Sam what I just said, no matter what he promises or how many puppy dog eyes he makes at you." Because if Sam ever found out Dean was familiar with "Jabberwocky", that would lead to looking glasses and Alice and an eternity of snide remarks and dumb jokes at his expense, and he would end up having to kill Sam or himself, or both.

Not his fault it was the only book the stupid hospital had had to give him, was it?

//_Secret._//

"Oh, yeah," he said, and he laughed again.

The trip back to the first chamber was much easier than the way in, especially now that Dean knew he could make it all the way through and with Iceflame's blade providing illumination. When he squeezed out of opening and into the room, his eye fell on several inscribed strongboxes lying beneath the table and he recalled the words of the scroll. That is, the sucky _lying_ scroll, since the _real_ test was not see if he could pick the right sword, but to see if the_Sword_ would pick him.

Assuming the scroll was telling the truth about this at least and if the Sword called Evil to battle, then that could present a danger to his little wagon train. With the portal hopefully close, it was the wrong time to bring demons down upon themselves.

Iceflame apparently figured out his intentions because the protest rolled through his mind. _//Battle. Demons, darkness. Kill. Destroy. Dismember.//_

"Wow," Dean said with a bemused smile. "You're kind of bloodthirsty, aren't you?"

There was a puzzled silence. Then, _//Yes.__**Sword**_

Ah._Good_ point.

Dean shook his head, though he was still smiling. "If it were just the two of us, then okey-dokey. But I have people, including children, depending on me to get them to safety. I can't bring greater danger down on them."

To his surprise, the Sword seemed happy with his answer. _//Honor. Protect. Guard. Good. Avoid battle.//_

"Great. Though," he looked at the three boxes on the ground, "I don't think it matters. No way you're going to fit into that."

_//Larger. Smaller.//_

He wondered if Iceflame meant the strongbox, itself or both.

_//Both.//_

He hadn't said that out loud. At first disconcerted the Sword could read his thoughts, Dean finally decided it was a good thing: It meant he wouldn't have to stand out in front of strangers appearing to talk to himself. The "normal" world already thought the Winchesters in general, and Dean Winchester in particular, were crazy.

He bent to reach for one of the boxes, placing his left hand on the table for support. Right onto the edge of a knife he had not noticed. The blade sliced across his palm and he came upright quickly, cursing fluently. _You idiot!_ Using Iceflame, he sliced a section of the cloth off and wrapped it about his hand, then went back to getting the strongbox.

He lifted one of the boxes up and even as he watched, eyes wide, the strongbox began to stretch slowly and steadily, until it could well accommodate the entire length of Iceflame. Dean grinned. Damned if they hadn't fallen into it this time. Though it was hard--maybe impossible would be a better word--to fathom that this place would be hidden within the confines of Hell. It seemed to be calling down trouble, running the risk that some powerful demon lord would find a way to get around the barrier—because he was fairly sure it was designed to keep the darkness out—and destroy Iceflame, unless….

The last piece of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place. He had already figured some of it out, and now he had the key piece of information. He _knew_ and a grim smile touched his lips.

He stared at the box again, as an idea took hold, and the smile became dangerous.

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**A/N**: I hope to have the next chapter up within a few days. Hope it's all still going okay.


	7. Hell is oneself, Hell is alone

**utDisclaimer**When you wish upon a star…nothing happens. Darn it.

**A/N**: I have to apologize for not having responded as yet to some of the most recent reviews; real life has yet again reared its proverbially ugly head. I will put my nose to the proverbial grindstone as quickly as I can. Thank you again so much.

_**Chapter 8: "Hell is oneself, Hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections."—T.S. Eliot**_

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The vision hit with blinding intensity. It had been so long since he'd had one, Sam had forgotten just how much they hurt. Closing his eyes against the pain, he staggered back from the kitchen table. As if from a great distance, he could hear Bobby's panicked voice calling his name.

The images flew at him furiously, a sere and terrible land, the faces of people he did not recognize, beasts with batwings that he assumed were demons, pain, heat, thirst, death, white fire. Dirt roads meeting--a crossroads. No, _the_ crossroads. Where it all began. Then…something swirling and glowing, and…and Dean.

When the vision finally faded, Sam found himself on the floor, with a very worried Bobby kneeling next to him. The older man shook his head.

"That vision you had that guy send Dean hit him pretty hard, but this was even worse. No wonder you hate the damn things!"

Sam shook off his hand and jumped to his feet. "Bobby, we have to go back!"

Bobby looked puzzled. "Back? To where?"

"The crossroads where Dean went to Hell! We have to go there, Bobby. Now." Sam knew there was a feverish edge to his voice but he didn't care. Dean. He'd seen _Dean_ and a gate or portal of some kind. Here, in South Dakota. And there was no way he wasn't going to be there when that damn thing opened!

Bobby still hadn't moved from the spot where he had been standing. "Slow down, Sam. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about."

"I had a vision!"

"I could tell _that_, Sam. I ain't blind. But I'm also not moving 'til you tell me what you saw and what it has to do with the crossroads." Bobby's tone had taken on the patina of patience an adult uses with an obstreperous child just before giving up the pretense of patience at all and hauling off and letting the kid have it.

Sam took a deep breath as if to regain control, but he continued to shift from foot to foot like an eager thoroughbred just waiting for the gate to open. "The first images, part of Hell, I guess. Demons, pain…I could almost feel it, Bobby. There was such despair and desperation in the faces. And then it was South Dakota, the damned crossroads." He closed the distance between himself and the older man. "I saw a…a _portal_ of some kind. And Dean, Bobby, Dean came through! Then it ended. We have to go. If it really is Dean, if he somehow found a way out….What if they're chasing him, Bobby? I'm not going to leave him hanging out there in the middle of nowhere. God knows what they did to him down there!"

"Easy, Sam," Bobby said soothingly. The younger man was like a skittish colt right now and he didn't want Sam to bolt off by himself. "These visions of yours, how accurate have they been?"

"As far as I know, one-hundred percent unless Dean and I did something to change them. He's going to be there, Bobby, I'm sure of it!" Sam clutched at the other hunter's sleeve. "We have to be there when the gate opens."

When Bobby nodded firmly, Sam relaxed then he moved toward the spare room and his duffel bag. "Ruby gave me one of those damn demon-killing knives of hers; I have it in the duffel," he called over his shoulder. "We'll take it and the Colt, in case there's something hot on Dean's heels. How long would it take you to make up a bucketful of holy water?"

"Not very long, Sam. I'll be ready to leave in ten minutes."

With Sam pushing, they were actually out the door in eight. Sam raced to the Impala; the last thing Sam wanted was another hyperventilation scene if Dean thought Sam had let something happen to his baby.

As they pulled out of the junkyard and pointed the Impala back toward the crossroads, Sam--for what seemed to be the first time in forever--permitted himself a broad smile. His brother had found a way out of Hell--something that seemed to be a Winchester trait now that he thought about it--and Sam was going to be there to welcome him home.

And_then_ he would kick Dean's ass six ways to Sunday for drugging him and leaving him behind.

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When Dean emerged through the barrier, Tillih and the little girl--it was odd, but all the time he was there, he had never been offered the names of anyone in the settlement other than Tillih; then again, in most lore, names have power and even now, despite all the times he had come to their defense, they could be worried the names might be used against them--and Tillih gave him a relieved smile. The instant he was completely through the barrier, it all returned. The terrible thirst, the hunger pangs, the searing heat, the blistering wind that sent sand ripping across his skin. And his hand was hurting worse. A lot worse.

"Dean. You have been gone so long, I was afraid…." Her voice trailed off.

"So long?" He glanced up and realized the sky behind the flames had darkened. When he left it had been "day." "It didn't seem that long to me."

Tillih pointed to the strongbox he carried. "What is this?"

Dean smiled wolfishly. "Something that can help us if push comes to shove." Seeing her blank expression, he added, "I mean, if any demons find us."

"Ah. That is a good thing then!"

He nodded then bent down to pick up the child. Tillih gasped and reached out to grasp his left wrist. "What happened to your hand?" she asked.

"Stupidity. I forgot that sharp things have sharp edges. Nothing to worry about."

"In Hell, _everything_ is something to worry about," she replied briskly, reaching for the stone container she had been carrying that held the salve. She carefully unwrapped the cloth and Dean winced as it stuck to the wound and had to be forcefully pulled off. In the few minutes he had been back, the cut had already begun to fester, but an application of the Magical Sticky Stuff started it easing up almost immediately.

Swinging the child around, he gestured for everyone to get up. "We must keep moving," he said, raising his voice so that everyone could hear him. "I'm sure now we're not far from the portal. We're close enough to _taste_ escape. And home."

With audible groans, the rest of the group came to their feet and began to follow behind him as he set off again for the butte. Tillih hurried slightly, to reach his side.

"I do not understand, why are you so sure we are almost there?" she asked.

"It's hard to explain; I just am." _Mostly because the picture formed by the puzzle says so._ It seemed wise, though, to say that out loud.

She nodded and smiled. "That is good then." Her expression changed then and she suddenly looked worried. "You do not think that we will all go to _your_ world, your Earth. Even if we are all from the same world, there are things about your clothing and your manner that are foreign to me." Tillih looked uncomfortable. "I do not know that I could find a place there."

Dean had never considered that and he had no answer. "I really don't know, Tillih; I hope the others find their way home."

He knew he was pushing them a little harder than he should have been, but he could almost feel the fresh air of freedom. Even though Iceflame was shielded within the strongbox and presumably hidden to the senses of Evil, he could hear it whispering in his mind. _Evil here. Darkness. Destroy._ He kept soothing it with an equally silent, _Not yet_, but he worried that the Great Sword might decide at any moment it did not wish to avoid battle any longer.

It was the middle of the next "night" when they approached the base of the butte. They had beaten back two attacks by sand lizards and one by the flying predators, though not without injury. Still, he had not lost any more of his traveling companions and if he had really believed in God, he would have sent a heartfelt "thank you" winging skyward.

Only a short walk around the curving wall of the butte and the portal would be there. Dean stopped abruptly. There was…something, as if all his hair was trying to stand on end. Without knowing how he knew, he just _knew_ the portal was not unguarded.

_Damn! So close!_

He whirled around, a finger to his lips and one hand gesturing for them to get down. Tillih did as he directed but her eyes asked him why. He mimicked horns on his head and her hand flew to her mouth. He could practically feel the fear radiating off the rest of the group.

Moving back silently, he studied the wall of the formation. This close, it was not so steep as it had appeared from a distance. More importantly, about thirty feet up, there were a series of ledges--close enough that someone could move from one to the other--that circled around the wall toward the location of the portal. His eyes roved over the wall below the nearest ledge. Yes, it appeared to be rough enough, with protrusions and indents, to provide sufficient holds for him to scale it. At the very least, he would be able to get around to where he could see what they had to face.

With hand gestures, he indicated his intention to climb to the ledge. Tillih looked concerned but she just pulled the little girl over to her and nodded. Figuring that the eternal fires above would have baked the rock to skin-blistering temperatures, he slipped off his jacket and with some reluctance--at least it was not his beloved leather jacket; he'd left that behind with Sam--ripped off two pieces and wrapped his hands to protect them. He placed the strongbox down next to Tillih.

Dean took a deep breath--free climbing was not exactly a favorite hobby of his--and began to ascend the wall. It was slow going, the hand-and toeholds too small for comfort. By the time one ledge was in reach, Dean would have killed for a sip of anything liquid and the sweat pouring in his eyes was making it hard to see. The ledge was just above him now and he stepped up onto first one protrusion and then a second. As he reached for the rim of the ledge, to his horror he felt one of the protrusions begin to give way. Desperately, he threw his weight onto his other leg and straightened up, pushing off as his hands scrabbled for anything to grab on the ledge. A second later, he was lying across the ledge, his breath coming in gasps and his racing heart thundering in his ears, with only one thought tumbling around in his head.

People who did this for fun were just fucking nuts.

After regaining some semblance of composure, Dean raised his head and peered at the next ledge over. It wasn't more than one or two feet from his current perch. He decided safety beat vanity, and he stayed on his hands and knees until he reached the edge. At that point, he came slowly to his feet and stepped carefully across the gap. Then down again on hands and knees. For some reason, he suddenly remembered the way year-old Sammy used to race this way around the various motel room floors, laughing and usually managing to evade capture by Dad by scooting behind couches and under tables and into small spaces where Dad couldn't go; Dean was usually sent in to snare the escapee. A smile flitted across his face as he pictured Sasquatch Sam trying to fit into the same spaces.

Dean alternated standing and crawling all the way around the curve until he reached a point where, while lying flat, he could cautiously peer over the edge. A winged demon stood before the portal, one of the black swords in its hands. The good news was there was only one. The bad news was it was still an armed demon and there was no way to approach it without being seen.

Except, that is, from above.

He wasn't sure, though, that dropping _thirty_ feet onto a demon was going to leave him in good enough shape to actually fight the damn thing. He moved into a sitting position back against the wall and bowed his head. He was exhausted already and he had to be careful not to endanger all of the people in his care. For the moment, he felt the edge of despair. To have come so far…his lips tightened. He would _not_ be stopped now.

As he desperately sought a solution, Dean suddenly noticed something near the gap between the ledge he sat on and the next one. The wall there was shadowed--when it shouldn't be. He crawled over silently and found himself staring at a vertical crevice in the wall.

_Well, now, isn't that convenient? Kinda like the ledges. Still, gift horse and all that._

It was about two feet wide and three or four feet in depth and the ledge he was on extended about a foot past the beginning of the crevice. The surface of the walls were rough and dotted with the same protrusions and indentations as the outer butte wall, and Dean smiled. Moving carefully, Dean worked his way from the ledge into the crevice and began to slowly work his way down, one foot and hand on one wall, the other pair using the second wall.

When he reached the bottom, he was still hidden within the shadows. The demon now was no more than three or four feet ahead of him, its back to him. A feral grin spread across his face and he pulled the spike from his waistband. Gathering himself, he leaped across the distance separating the two of them, raising the spike high and slicing it sideways across the demon's neck as he reached the beast. As before, the incredibly sharp thorn had no difficulty severing the demon's head from its body.

The torso collapsed where the demon had been standing, with the head coming to rest a few feet away. Dean stared down at the hellspawn. He almost felt sorry for the poor dumb beast, designated to be cannon fodder in the grand design. Then again, _demon._

He turned and hurried back toward where he had left the others. Rounding the curve, he gestured that they should come quickly then he turned around to study the gate. The portal swirled, a sickly grayish-green color. Yet, at the far end, Dean thought he could see a brilliant, welcoming light. It was almost impossible to believe they were here and that the doorway out, the way _home_, was open. Home. There were many things he had missed in his life, but he learned something: People were wrong when they thought a home had to be a place. It could be the feel of a classic muscle car under your hands and a brother riding shotgun.

Watching the colors shift and circle, his face practically split in two, so wide was his smile. He turned back to face the people now huddled together, all of them staring at the portal with wide eyes and an odd combination of joy and disbelief. Tillih was standing closest, the strongbox in her hands.

"We made it!" Dean said, laughing. "Come on, everyone. There's the way home. Who'll be the first one to check out of this crummy resort?"

No one made a move. Dean could see they all desperately wanted to, but they were afraid, and he understood what they feared. What if this were all a game, a terrible joke the demons were playing on them? What if the portal led nowhere but to Hell again?

He knew what they were thinking: Better to live with a flicker of hope than to have even that small flame snuffed out.

He understood, but he wasn't happy about it. Having led them this far, he would not abandon them, which meant he could not leave until they did. Dean walked back to the rest of his caravan; he addressed all of the adults, swinging one arm to include all of the children.

"If not for yourselves, then do it for them," he said softly. "I believe this really _is_ the way out. There was no point in coming all this way, only to lose courage now."

He leaned down and, ignoring an incipient protest from their parents, picked up two small children, one in each arm, then turning on one heel, he headed back toward the portal, stopping at the entrance. The colors played across his face, graying out his skin, but his eyes gleamed a bright green. Behind him there was only silence for a moment and he began to believe that here, at the very end, they would lose heart, then he heard feet shuffling along the heat-baked dirt and the first of his troupe, the parents of the children he held, came up even with him. After staring at the open gateway for a few minutes, they retrieved their offspring, smiled at him and stepped into the swirling light.

Next were the parents of the little girl killed back at the settlement. "Thank you," her mother said. "I will not forget you and I know that you did everything you could to protect Karina."

_Karina,_ he thought. He would tuck that away behind his walls, one more failure in a lifetime of them.

Then she and her husband stepped forward and disappeared into the portal. A soft sigh escaped the group collected behind him and he could _feel_ the rest move forward en masse. As they reached him, they split into family units. Tears in their eyes, they touched him or hugged him or said "Thank you" gruffly, before stepping forward and being swallowed by the portal. When the last of them was finally gone, except for Tillih and him, he turned to face her.

She was smiling broadly at him, eyes shining. Brushing rebellious strands of hair back behind her ears, she walked to him and touched his cheek lightly.

"So, not such a failure, are you?" she said, her smile now gentle.

He ducked his head and shrugged, not surprised she had known his thoughts. After all, hadn't _they_ had always known about his weakness and slammed him with it repeatedly? "I was going to find the portal, no matter what. I just let them come along, that's all."

"Let them come along?" She looked amazed. "Is that how you describe getting them all the way across to here?"

"Not everyone," he said softly, still studying the ground.

"There is only so much one man can do. You led them well, fought for them, saved many who should have been lost. You have nothing to feel to beat yourself up about."

"They followed me, Tillih. I hope they didn't really belong in Hell; that they have moved on to a real reward."

"You said it yourself: At least this way, they are free."

"Maybe." His eyes were still shadowed. "It doesn't change the past: I still failed Sammy and Dad. Dad should have been there to keep Sammy safe, not me; Dad was always better'n me at hunting. And I let Sammy get killed, and even after I made the deal, he still wasn't safe. Those damn abilities, they're not gone, demons are still after him, the last psychic kid standing, 'cause they still need a general."

"I don't know if your father was really a better hunter than you, but I do know, based on what you've told me, that he and your brother would have been at each other's throats moments after you had died. They would have split up and been vulnerable, with _no one_ to protect Sam at all."

She handed him back the strongbox. "Now you will be returning to help your brother, with perhaps something that can protect him even more."

He tucked the box under one arm, reaching for her hand with the other. She didn't move, though, even when he tugged at her arm.

"Tillih?"

"Dean, I, uh, I…can't go with you." She looked worried, her gaze switching back and forth between Dean and the portal. "You _must_ go now. We have no idea how long the portal will remain open."

"What do you mean, you can't go?"

With a sob, she turned away. "I have not been honest with you."

He asked again, "What do you mean?"

She spun again to face him. "Dean, I'm not like the others. I'm…I'm not human. Not really."

He said nothing, just stood looking at her. She seemed to struggle with her emotions then took a deep breath. "I'm a demon, Dean. I angered my overlord more centuries ago than I can remember and my punishment was to be bound into a human form and sent here. To be treated like cattle, as I had treated so many humans." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It's strange, but after a while, I stopped thinking of myself as a demon. Those trapped here from Earth, they became my people."

She raised tear-filled eyes to Dean. "But I can never leave. To even try would mean my destruction. I'm so sorry, Dean. I couldn't tell you; I was afraid you would hate me. And I never wanted that."

He looked at her, expressionless. "Some demon hunter I am, huh?"

"I'm more human these days than demon; there's no reason you should have known." She touched his face. "But you have to go. Now. You are needed back on Earth. Go home, to your brother and all those who mourn for you, and to the war. Fight well in battle and I will be happy. And remember."

He turned away then. "Trust me. I won't forget you. And I hope you'll remember _me_."

"Always."

Straightening his shoulders, he nodded once, stepped into the portal and was gone.

A few moments later, the portal had closed. She knew he was back on Earth even before the gateway shut down. She threw back her head and laughed and wondered how Dean would feel if he knew he was the only one to have arrived home, since all of the others--this whole land--had been nothing more than her creations.

Even as the landscape around her shimmered and faded into the fire-tinged darkness that was Hell, she was changing as well. Growing taller and monstrous, skin becoming scales the color of midnight, huge bat wings sprouting from her shoulder blades and her eyes becoming twin pools of fire. She tilted her head slightly, acknowledging the equally hideous figure that appeared behind her.

"Lucifer, you just missed seeing him off. You must be heartbroken." Her voice was the growl of a great beast.

The darkness shook slightly with his laughter. "I saw the entire show, Lilith. It was very touching." He moved closer to the Mother of Demons. "Was this elaborate deception necessary? And the time to set it up?"

"What are a couple of decades to us? Less than the blink of an eye. More importantly, did you or did you not want the Sword finally removed as a threat for all time? None in Hell, including either of us, could have touched it, but it remained there in its sacred place to be taken by one who could. Such as Dean Winchester. He is the one marked in this time to wield it. He believes his brother to be the more pure of the two of them, but Sam Winchester, with both the demon taint from Azazel's blood and his own capacity for darkness, would not be allowed by the Sword to touch it.

"And since the location of the Sword's resting place was not within the boundaries of Hell, Hell would be no barrier to one seeking the Sword; anyone capable of wielding it could have come for it and we could not have prevented it from being taken." She gestured and suddenly, at her feet, there was a shimmering and the glamour of nothingness fell away, revealing a strongbox covered with sigils. "It took considerable effort, but with some help from Azazel's moronic plan--which never _really_ had any chance to succeed, at least, not as the idiot believed it would, but which proved useful in moving Dean Winchester to where I wanted him--I got pretty Dean to make the deal, with myself as the true holder of the contract. And he, dear little child that he is, got the Sword for us. We can hide it in the farthest depths of Hell, where neither he nor any other champion will ever be able to get at it again."

Lucifer smiled, displaying savage fangs. "Neutralized forever. How nice."

She pointed at the box and laughed again. "Dean was so kind as to hand me the _real_ strongbox; he had no idea that what I gave back to him was just another creation of mine, one that will fade when he reaches the other side of the portal." She gestured and the box rose to her hand. "So long as the box remains closed and sealed, we can move the Sword to where we want it."

As the strongbox rose as high as her head, she caught a glimpse of something colorful on the bottom. Frowning, she reached for the box, tilted it slightly and saw that it was a piece of the same type of cloth that had been wrapped around Dean's wound when he returned from beyond the barrier. It had been stuck to the bottom with some of the salve--so it had been put there after Dean had returned through the barrier--but the letters she could see on it had been written in blood, _his_ blood, so Dean had probably written it while still in the Sword's enclave, after he had first cut his hand.

She pulled the cloth off and read it. _"Surprise, you demonic bitch! And thanks for the Get Out of Hell Free card."_

Lucifer eyed her sharply, noticing her reaction. "What?" he asked. "What is wrong?"

She didn't answer but opened the box, ignoring his "Are you insane, Lilith?" Lilith bared her fangs and snarled at the strongbox.

"Don't worry, it's _not_ the Great Sword. He tricked me!"

"What?" Lucifer roared. "He knew? All this for _nothing_?" Then he demanded, "Does _he_ have the real Sword?"

"I do not know. I do not see how he could, since he carried nothing but this. Perhaps he realized it had all been a trick to get the Sword and he left it in its place behind the barrier."

"So, either the Sword is still out there where another Champion can get it, or Winchester is free and _he_ has it! To use against us! We must bring him back at once!"

"We cannot. He is _not_ one of the Damned who have been adjudged to belong in Hell. He is here only because of a deal to save his brother's life and the terms of the deal did not require that he remain in Hell, thus they were fulfilled when he offered himself to us and came here. If we bring him back, we risk a confrontation with the Other Side. Besides, _if_ he has the Sword, do you think it would let us take him? And if he had bonded with it, even if he had left it behind in the Enclave, it would come to save him no matter _when_ we bring him here. In fact," she added, "even if he does things that would damn him, we would be wise to _never_ make him our guest again."

"All for nothing, then!" Lucifer snarled again. With a roar of rage and the overwhelming stench of sulfur, he was gone.

The Mother of Demons stared at the note and the box and her gaze consumed them both in a by fire hotter than the corona of a star. Then a slight smile touched her lips.

"Well played, Champion. Well played." Her smile widened. "And I'm quite sure I will remember you for a long time to come."

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**A/N**: Next to the last chapter (the last post will be both a chapter and the epilogue, otherwise I'd never get it posted before I head off for a three-week visit with my family). Thanks so much for sticking with it.


	8. The End and the Beginning

**Disclaimer**: Perhaps as a stocking stuffer? Kripke?

**A/N**: Last, but hopefully not least. Wherein Dean gets tested, hugged, punched; and exchanges explanations, information and sarcasm with an old "friend." Thanks to everyone for sticking with it to the end!

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_**Chapter 8: "Most of American life consists of driving somewhere and then**__** returning**__** home, wondering why the **__**hell**__** you went."—John Updike**_

Dean found himself kneeling in the dirt at the same crossroads where he had been taken to Hell and the first thing he wondered was how much time had passed here on Earth. He had a momentary twinge of concern that his stay in Hell would be like that of a mortal taken to Faerie, and he would find that centuries had passed. That Sam was long since gone and turned to dust.

He shook his head, to dispel the nightmarish image the thought conjured up, and then stood. _Can we not create a problem, asshole, when it might not exist?_ Even as he brushed the dirt off his pants with one hand, the box he held in the other began to flicker and then it disappeared entirely. A smile touched his lips and he wondered if Lilith--his grin widened as he recalled the truly touching, and Oscar-worthy, scene at the portal--had gotten his message yet.

Dean reached down and patted one of the pockets in his jeans. He could feel the small lump that was an inscribed box no bigger than his thumb, inside which lay a Sword no bigger than the span from his knuckle to the end of his finger. The Great Sword sang in his mind.

//_Clever clever Dean,_// it crooned, sounding like nothing so much as a proud parent. //_Fooled the Darkness._// And then it roared with triumphant laughter.

Dean joined in. "That never gets old. I _hate_ being messed with." His eyes darkened to a brilliant jade. "Especially when it ends up hurting Sam."

He started back toward civilization and the motel he and Sam had stayed in the night Dean had left to honor the Deal. He had not gone very far before he heard a familiar sound--the jungle cat growl from the engine of his car--coming closer. Stopping dead in his tracks, eyes wide, he waited, staring down the dirt road until the sleek black vehicle raced around a curve and into view.

The Impala slammed to a halt so suddenly it practically planted its nose in the ground. Sam flew out of the driver's door, with Bobby exiting more slowly. Dean could see the Colt in his hand.

"Damn, Bobby, I always thought I was your favorite Winchester, 'cause you hadn't pointed a shotgun at me, or conked me one and tied me up," he said snarkily, referencing the time Sam was possessed by the Demon Formerly Known as Meg. "Guess I really _am_ my father's son," he added, nodding at the gun.

Bobby's lips quirked, but he kept the Colt steady. Sam still had not said anything and Dean was getting concerned. His younger brother was just staring at him, his eyes showing so much pain and need that Dean could not breathe for a moment.

"Hey, Sammy, it's me," Dean said, his voice gentle.

Sam's only response was, "Christo." Then, "Yahweh. Allah. Shiva. Ahura-Mazda," with each Name being said more firmly and forcefully than the one before.

Dean waited patiently until his walking encyclopedia of a little brother finally wound down. Dean smirked at Sam. "See? Not a flinch."

"Good to see you, Dean," Bobby said, stepping forward with a smile and a canteen. "Must've worked up one hell of a thirst.

"Sure have, Bobby," Dean replied, grinning. "Why don't I take a sip of the perfectly normal, not blessed or anything, water in that canteen?"

Bobby chuckled but watched Dean like a wolf sighting a wounded deer as Dean took first one, then another, deep drink without effect. After the second one, both Bobby _and_ Sam relaxed slightly, but Dean knew the testing wasn't over. There was still the trap waiting back at the cabin. After all, throwing holy water on Dad hadn't bothered the yellow-eyed bastard inside.

Sam glanced behind Dean. "The portal's closed? Nothing else came through?"

"That why you brought the fire power?" He avoided adding, "_Or was it for me?"_ Considering how wrecked Sam looked right now and all. He just smiled and said, "Don't worry. They _threw_ me out. Something about being too annoying. I don't get that. You _know_ I'm a joy to be around." At Sam's classic eyerolling bitchface, Dean began to whoop with laughter. God, he had _missed_ that look!

Sam insisted on driving and Dean knew he wouldn't get the keys until the final test was passed. He took the shotgun position with Bobby ensconced behind him with the Colt and the holy water. Sam kept glancing over at him, while Dean kept waiting for the Emo King to emerge, but Sam was still keeping an emotional distance between them. Dean guessed Sammy was trying to stay cool and a little remote in case Dean failed the last tests.

They drove past the same small church. Still there and structurally the same, so he supposed not too much time had passed. It had been darkened and uncaring on his way to the crossroads. This time, though, for just an instant, he thought he caught a glimpse of a gleam of light behind the stained glass window above the front door, but when he looked at it head on, only a shadowed window met his gaze.

After they got back to the cabin, Bobby actually ran through an exorcism ritual; Dean just stood there, arms folded, smiling. Finally, there was the demonic version of the roach motel from the Key of Solomon, carefully repainted after the destruction Meg had visited on it. Dean, while understanding Sam and Bobby's caution, couldn't help himself; it had been a long and draining road back and he was getting tired.

He stuck his right arm out past the rim of the circle drawn on the ceiling and warbled, "You put your right arm in," he pulled it back, "you put your right arm out. You put your right arm in and you shake it all about." He stopped singing for a minute. "Aw, heck, let's just jump to the end."

He began to sing at the top of his lungs. "You put your whole self in," he jumped inside the circle, "you put your whole self out." He suited action to words. "You put your whole self in," in once again, "and you shake it all about," he vigorously waggled his ass, "you do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself around, and that's what it's all about!"

He ended on a note that threatened to shake the house down. Then he stepped outside again and smiled at Sam and Bobby, who were staring at him with wide eyes and mouths hanging open. "Christo," Bobby whispered in disbelief. Dean just laughed.

Sam spluttered for a moment then said, "Dude, where the hell did you learn the hokey-pokey?"

"Where do you think? From _you_, jerk. When you were six, you learned it at school. You didn't stop singing it--well, really, more like _shouting_ it; you couldn't sing to save your life, dude!--for the next three months, and wagging your butt everywhere. I came this close to being an only child: Dad was ready to hand you off to the next person who said, 'Oh, isn't that cute?'"

Dean cracked up at the thunderstruck expression on Sam's face.

Since it was seriously in doubt that many demons knew, or could have survived, the hokey-pokey--okay, _or_ the trap--Dean instantly found himself encased in a massive Sammy-hug. He would never admit it if anyone asked, but he buried his face against his brother's neck and blinked away tears--something had probably blown into his eyes. Yep. That was his story and he was sticking to it--before he'd pushed away and muttered something about "his damn ten-foot tall sister." Because continuing to hold on would have been, you know, embarrassing.

Two seconds later, a pile driver had connected with his face. Blinking up muzzily from the ground, he stared at the now-furious Sam standing over him and glaring at him with the mightiest bitchface in the history of bitchfaces.

"_That_, you son of a bitch, is for drugging me and taking off on your own! For, for _leaving_ me, you bastard!"

Dean observed a noticeable wibble to Sam's lower lip and a suspicious moisture in his younger brother's eyes. A second later, Sam exploded past him and out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him. Bobby just grinned and strolled toward the door himself.

"I'll be working on my truck. Call me if he's trying to strangle you. Otherwise, it's your problem," he said over his shoulder. Then he stopped and said softly, "It's been hell on him, Dean. I didn't think he was going to make it."

Dean stood up and nodded. He didn't bother to keep the walls up, not in front of Bobby, and all his worry and sorrow for Sam sat openly on his face. Dean had seen the haunted look in Sam's eyes, behind the anger, and he would do whatever it took to erase it. Of course, what it would take would be time--lots of it, to convince Sam that Dean was really here and not going to fade away like early morning mist--and, most likely, the Mother of all chick flick moments. He headed for the door. He could do this; he was Sam's big brother and this is what big brothers do. They take care of their little, if seriously oversized, brothers, no matter what.

And he wouldn't even take a raincoat. Even though the immediate forecast was for major storms and torrential downpours.

Because after that, it would sunshine, and the open road with the wind at their backs.

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_**Epilogue: The Beginning**_

Dean leaned back with a contented sigh, the last of the French fries wending its way down his gullet. In the few weeks he had been back, he had eaten his way through everything in Bobby's house and practically cleaned out the local diner in the nearby town. Sam had taken to staring at him and shaking his head. When he wasn't cringing in embarrassment as Dean ordered everything on the menu, that is.

"Dude," Sammy had finally said, "you've always had an appetite, but this is ridiculous!"

He'd shrugged. "Guess being around all that hellfire does something to your metabolism. It's not as if I'm adding any weight to the incredible perfection of my form!" He'd grinned at Sam's eye roll.

Remembering that conversation, he smiled quietly. Things were getting back to normal between him and Sam. It hadn't been easy at first. Sam hadn't cooled off quickly and Dean could see, behind the anger, the hurt and pain. It had taken considerable effort to erase them both from Sam's eyes and Dean regretted nothing so much as every tear his younger brother had shed for him.

Sammy had stuck to him like a burr, seeming afraid to let Dean out of his sight. It had taken all of Dean's persuasive powers a few minutes ago to even get Sam to leave the diner's damn booth and take the leak the younger man clearly was in desperate need of. He'd assured Sam he didn't need protection just to order another round of French fries. Two weeks of this, and Dean was starting to consider stronger measures.

Not bathing might work, but it would probably also cause Bobby to throw him out.

Abruptly, Dean sat up straight, all thoughts of food forgotten. Every nerve ending in his body suddenly afire and screaming at him. _Hell comes! Beware!_ He hadn't even needed Iceflame's roar of warning; he'd already realized an enemy was here.

Not for the first time, he recognized that Hell had left a mark on him. And he had kept it to himself: He wasn't sure how even Sammy, much less Bobby, would take learning that Dean could sense demonic presences or that he had known when a hellhound had hunted in the hills beyond Bobby's home. _Or_ that he could see in total darkness and that fire no longer burned him--he had learned _that_ tidbit when he'd tripped and landed with one hand in the lit fireplace.

He never told them, afraid they would turn from him, afraid they would fear him as he himself sometimes feared that he wasn't right. At those times, he would reach again for the Sword, feeling once more its acceptance, seeing the brilliant white light that lay within, the weapon for Good the Sword was. If he could wield it, then he couldn't be an agent for Hell, could he?

Maybe it was time to tell Sam and Bobby. About his newfound abilities and about the Sword. Maybe his stay in Hell had not made him Lucifer's point man, but a weapon against the darkness.

The spidey sense tingled again, much more strongly, practically screaming at him. A shadow fell across the booth's table and he looked up, expecting Sam, but finding _Tillih_. He stiffened, reaching for the disguised Sword strapped to his right arm in the knife sheath.

She raised a placating hand. "I'm just here to talk." Without asking permission, she slid into the booth across the table from him.

In response, he stretched his right arm over the table, bringing the Sword closer to his uninvited--and unwanted--guest. He could feel the ancient blade reacting to the nearness of a demonic presence. It_wanted_ to act, wanted to destroy the evil, and it whispered war chants in his mind. _Not yet,_ he told it silently, _I want to know why she's here._

"So, slumming?" He asked. "Or you just couldn't go on anymore without me?"

She gave a throaty chuckle. "Actually, I rather _do_ miss you. You wouldn't consider coming back, would you?"

"Right after I check into the asylum, sweetheart." He glanced past her, wondering whether Sam had fallen in. Backup right now might not be a bad idea.

"I didn't think so. Didn't hurt to ask, though." She noticed his looking behind her. "Oh, don't worry. Little—or not so little—Sammy is just fine. If locked into the bathroom.

He gave a snort of laughter. "Thanks so much. I'm the one who's gonna have to live with his bitchface for the rest of the day." He cocked his head. "I'm surprised you could show up like this. I thought demons had to claw their way out of Hell."

She shrugged. "That's true for lesser demons, but not for one such as myself. I come and go as I please."

"Right, how could I forget? _Lilith_. Mother of Demons. Adam's first wife."

She gave him an exasperated look. "Not that last part, thank you. Trust humans to get it wrong. As if _I_ would be a wife to a mortal. I'm one of the original Fallen, Dean, and one of the most powerful." She studied him. "And I'm also surprised you knew my name."

"I'm impressed then that someone as important as you came to play with little old unimportant me," he said, ignoring her silent question about _how_ he knew. "Or I would be, if I weren't pretty sure it was more about the Sword than me." He gave her a mock sad smile. "Breaks my heart."

Lilith leaned back in the booth, laughing. "You really are so entertaining, Dean. You sure you don't want to come back? I treat my pets very well."

"Wait, let me give that offer the consideration it deserves…okay, done now. No." They flashed equally insincere smiles at each other. Then he leaned forward. "Now tell me why you're _really_ here?"

"I spent a lot of time on this plan, Dean. I even used Azazel's idea for a demon army to help maneuver you into a position where you would need to make a deal. I was actually rather furious at him for almost killing you back in Missouri; without you, we couldn't get at the Sword."

"Me? Why me?"

"You figured out everything else, but not this? Oh, wait, it's that little low self-esteem problem you have. You _really_ need to work on that. It makes you overly needy, you know."

"Thanks for the heads-up, but if I decide to go looking for a therapist, you'd be the last person I'd pick."

She smiled and shrugged. "Just have your best interests at heart, child."

He smirked at her. "Sure you do. Or maybe you just don't want to think about what it means if a dummy and a failure outsmarted you."

Her smile widened. "There is always that." She leaned back in the booth. "The answer to your question is that you are a Champion. In the supernatural sense of the word, that is. And only a Champion can wield the sword."

He frowned. "That's got to be wrong. I'm nobody special. Not like Sam…and the Sword, it doesn't hate him but it wouldn't let him use it."

Her laughter trilled out again. "That esteem problem is even worse than I thought. No wonder our minions have been hitting you with it for years. Maybe I should have tried that approach, instead of working at puffing up your fragile ego."

_You beat her. Remember that. You __**beat**__ her. Nothing she says changes that or matters._

"As for Sam," Lilith said, "he has a great capacity for darkness in him. Yes, he has great capacity for good, as well, but never doubt his ability to go dark. That is what the Sword senses."

"Sam's not going dark," he growled. "Besides, I've done things, killed hosts--."

"All this time hunting the supernatural, and you _still_ don't know the rules. Tsk tsk." She sighed. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, since it's actually something _nice_ and it might end up getting me thrown out of the Fallen Angel Corps--"

"Wow," Dean said, hazel eyes opened to Bambi-like proportions with mock amazement, "do you have a secret handshake and everything?"

She worked at ignoring him, "--but do you think Good fights Evil with milk and cookies? Do you really think that You-Know-Who's 'perfect warrior' Mika'el--the _suck-up_--"

"Bet you don't say that to his face," Dean noted.

A shake of her head was the only acknowledgement of his comment. "Sam hasn't tried to kill you yet? Amazing."

"Actually, if you must know, he has. I just took the bullets out first."

"Wise move, but I'd continue to keep him away from anything he might use to do you damage, if I were you." A note of exasperation entered her voice. "Now, do us both a favor and shut up. Mika'el and his ilk are tough and dangerous; they have to be, because _we_ are. And while you may be both of those, and while there have been times you made hard decisions and have had to destroy the host because you could not let the Evil go--you have not yet crossed the line from what Good would do, to what Evil would do. Apparently, the Sword believes you never will. And _that_ is my good deed for the millennium."

She stretched languidly. "But I haven't answered your question. I came because I have to know, after all the effort and planning to find a way to neutralize the threat of the Sword, what went wrong? How did you know?"

After a moment, Dean replied, "Just little things here and there. I was still wearing an anti-possession charm a friend had given me; it had the Seal of Solomon on it. Guess it wasn't close enough to you when I first came to the settlement--," he stopped frowning, "--which I suppose was never really there, huh?" At her nod, he asked, "Was anything real? Any of the people."

"Only you and me. All the others faded away the instant they stepped into the portal. _Everything_, including the very land we traversed--I set it up as a bridge of sorts to the place where the Sword was--was created by me."

For a moment, his eyes flashed with anger--people he had come to like had been nothing more than empty-shell puppets--but there was nothing he could do about it. He contented himself with glaring at her. "And you were the one I met at the crossroads. _You_ held my contract?"

She inclined her head, indicating the affirmative.

After a few seconds of angry silence, he shook himself and started speaking again, his tone considerably sharper. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. Explaining what a _screw-up_ you were." He smirked at her indignant expression. "When my left leg was hurt--you know, when I first arrived—and you worked on it, you were fine. But when the demon ripped up my right leg, the one I had the charm on, and you went to fix it, you flinched for a second. You covered it pretty well, but that's when I knew you were a demon. I just didn't know why you were there. Didn't make sense you'd be there to trap me into something, since I was _already_ in Hell. And there was always the chance you were there because you'd pissed someone off. I figured I'd just wait and watch.

"Then, during that last attack at the settlement, when the little girl was killed, I felt someone come up behind me and just for a moment the demon hesitated, pulled back. It came on again but suddenly it wasn't trying to harm me anymore. The whole bit with the sword in the ground and the 'It's more fun if you're alive.' After it moved away, there you were, right behind me, all, 'Oh, you poor thing.' That's when I was sure you were someone with power. The demon had stopped for that minute because it was scared of you, then waited until it realized it was supposed to give the i_mpression_ it was after me. That silent little conversation it was having. I knew it was some kind of a setup, just wasn't sure then what it was about."

He beat a tattoo on the table lightly with his fingers. "Did you know that Sammy and me, we're pretty good at anagrams? No? You should have. As soon as I knew you weren't really a prisoner, well hell, your name just re-arranged itself in blinking lights. And why would_you_, Mother of Demons, be wasting your time with _me_? There was something big going on but the puzzle had these blank spaces until I found Iceflame and began to wonder why a place like that would be _in_ Hell and then realized that it _wasn't_--and everything just clicked. Not, of course, that I was going to say anything about it to you, when it looked as if you might _nice_ enough to let me leave without a fight."

He grinned nastily then and began to tick things off on his fingers. "So let's see: Dad's out; Sam still isn't leading some demon army and he _never_ will; the Deal's a thing of the past, I'm free and, oh yeah, I have Iceflame. That makes it: Winchesters, 3; Hell, zip, doesn't it?"

She just stared at him across the table and ignored his last comment. "That's _it_? The whole elaborate plan collapsed ultimately over two momentary occurrences--a _flinch_?--most people would not even have noticed, much less connected to a pattern? That…and an anagram? And you think you're the _dumb_ Winchester?" A rueful smile crossed her features. "I guess I did, too. My mistake. One I will never make again." She gave him a clearly phony bright smile. "Well, will you look at the time? I really must be going. Souls to torment, and all that."

He shifted his right arm to block her movement from the booth. "And why should my brand new BFF and I let you go?"

"You don't believe that Sam is really just trapped in the bathroom, do you? I'll make you a very simple deal, Dean, no catches: I get to leave the diner in one piece and Sam gets to leave the bathroom in one piece."

Glaring at her, the warning--"He'd better, bitch, or I will hunt you down to the end of the universe"--clear in his eyes, he pulled his arm back and jerked his head in the direction of the diner exit. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

"I look forward to our next meeting, Dean." Lilith said with a cool smile.

His eyes gleamed with a feral light. "Me, too." For a moment, he was back at Bobby's two years ago, snarling at Meg: "…I swear, I will march into Hell and slaughter everyone of you evil sons-of-bitches, so help me God!"

He believed in keeping his promises.

Somehow, he didn't actually see her leave. One minute he was watching her, the next he saw Sam heading toward the booth. He studied his brother carefully as the younger man slid across the bench seat. Except for the annoyed expression on Sam's face, his little brother seemed fine and Dean relaxed.

"Fall in?" Dean asked with a grin. Sam just frowned at him.

"It was odd: first, the stall wouldn't open, then the faucet wouldn't work right, then the bathroom door was locked and then…" Sam looked sheepish, "then I seem to have lost some time."

Dean hesitated, thinking of playing along for a moment then he decided against it. There had been enough secrets in the Winchester family. The ones their father had kept, then the one he had kept for a while--what Dad had said to him before dying--then the ones Sam had kept, first the visions, then the demon cocktail and the stuff about their Mom, everything. None of the secret-keeping had worked well, leaving anger and feelings of betrayal in the wake of the moment of revelation. Time for a new approach.

He stood up. "Let's pay the bill, Sammy and head back to Bobby's. I have some stuff to tell the two of you. There's a new player in the game." At Sam's puzzled look, he grinned and raised his right arm and shook it slightly.

Sam stared at him as if he'd grown an extra head. "Your right _arm_ is a 'new player in town?' Gee, what does that make your left foot, then?" The sarcasm could have drilled a hole in an iron door.

"Able to kick _your_ ass," Dean growled though his lips twitched. "Not here, Sammy. Let's get back to Bobby's and I'll give you the whole story."

As he headed for the Impala, a quote learned in high school a lifetime ago echoed in his mind: _That which does not kill you, makes you stronger._ Well, Hell was damn well going to wish it _had_ killed him.

With Iceflame's war cry ringing in his mind, Dean walked out of the diner with his brother, and into battle.

_FIN_

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**A/N**: For anyone who hasn't seen all of season 2 as yet, the anagram stuff is canonical and you'll find it in "The Usual Suspects." I hope this tied up all the loose ends and didn't disappoint anyone. Thanks again for coming along for the ride.


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